Apocalyptic Horses and Grammar Nazis

As I drove home from my sister’s place in Maryland, I thought a lot about grammar. Ten hours is a long time to reflect on something as geeky as grammar, I know. Long car rides send my reflective brain to strange places.

GrammarLand was not, however, the strangest place my brain went on the drive. I spent an interesting half-hour contemplating the fiberglass animals I saw on the back of a low flatbed trailer. The first animal I noticed in this unlikely menagerie on I-68 was a rather smallish bison. Having seen many real and scary-looking bison in Yellowstone, I know how big an adult can grow, which is about as big as the super cab pickup hauling these weird animal statues.

Accompanying the miniature brown bison were two painted, life-size horses…one in the same brown as the bison and the other sort of reddish. Then I noticed two totally white, unpainted horses, which of course made me think of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Were the colors right? I thought they were all white, but perhaps I was mistaken, especially because the Book of Revelation gives me the heebie-jeebies and thus rarely enters my mind unless four fiberglass horses appear out of nowhere on I-68.

Perhaps these four really were the biblical harbingers of doom, sans riders, of course. Their fiberglass legs looked spindly. What would happen if they snapped and fiberglass horse parts went flying all over I-68? I felt an irrational urge to pass the trailer just to be on the safe side.

As I accelerated past the trailer, I noticed a small unpainted fiberglass pig tucked beside the bison. Pig butts are funny enough to push all thought of the Apocalypse from my mind. When I finished chuckling, I started thinking about nonrestrictive modifiers and passive voice again.

You might think nonrestrictive modifiers and passive voice are far less interesting than fiberglass pig butts, but you’d be wrong. A recent thread in the General Stamping Forum at SplitcoastStampers reminded me that grammar is a highly controversial subject which flares tempers and turns some people into elitist, arrogant grammar Nazis preserving the purity of the rules they learned in seventh-grade English.

Problem is, some of those lessons are WRONG. Sorry about the all-caps yelling, but nothing provokes my ire like people who slavishly follow rules, even when some of those rules don’t exist.

I used to be one of these arrogant Nazis from GrammarLand. At the experienced age of seventeen, I informed a hapless park ranger of a misspelling on a park sign: “picnicing” should have been “picnicking.” He looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet, which was my first clue that my obsession with grammar and spelling probably exceeded the bounds of normalcy.

Eventually, I went to graduate school and taught the dreaded Freshman Composition. During my first few nerve-racking weeks teaching, a student asked me why I added commas to a sentence in her paper. I couldn’t remember the exact rule, which made me panic for a few seconds. I knew the commas belonged around that particular clause, but saying “because I said so” would have been pedagogical suicide. Instead, I said, “Let me show you how to look this up in your grammar handbook.” I did, and that was how my student learned (and I relearned) the rule on commas around nonrestrictive modifiers.

Whew.

That night, I read the entire grammar handbook to refresh my memory. The experience taught me the power of internalizing rules so completely that you forget them. Each rule I reviewed seemed like an old friend. “Hello, Nonrestrictive Clause That Takes Commas. Good to see you again! How have you been?” But really, these rules had been with me all along, hanging out in my unconscious mind working their magic and earning me good grades.

Grammar rules serve a noble purpose: they allow people to communicate as clearly as possible in a highly imperfect world. Communication under the best circumstances is fraught with peril. It’s so easy to be misunderstood…and so painful.

Some so-called rules, however, are not rules at all. They start as recommendations arising from common stylistic errors. For instance, many of my students believed with near-religious fanaticism that they should never, ever, under any circumstances start a sentence with and or but. When I corrected this misunderstanding, many students simply refused to believe me.

I felt deep kinship with the high school biology teacher whose ultra-conservative Christian student refused to believe that men and women have the same number of ribs.

Strunk and White’s superbly succinct book, The Elements of Style, includes a section titled “Avoid a succession of loose sentences,” which discusses the overuse of and, but, and other words that weaken the rhetorical effectiveness of writing. Beginning writers often resort to wordy, sloppy writing simply because the teacher assigns a word-count to their papers. The more useless words a student sprinkles around the paper, the more quickly he or she reaches that magic number of words to complete the assignment.

Reading wordy, pointless essays forces tortured seventh-grade English teachers to make broad, sweeping, self-defensive declarations like “Never start a sentence with and or but.” Students prefer clear and absolute rules like this to Strunk and White’s “avoid a succession of loose sentences.” What is a “loose sentence” anyway? It sounds vaguely dirty, doesn’t it?

Interestingly, Strunk and White generally object to the use of however at the beginning of a sentence. They state, “Avoid starting a sentence with however when the meaning is ‘nevertheless.’ The word usually serves better when not in the first position.” Notice that they qualify their injunction with the word usually.

Almost any rule can be broken if breaking it makes rhetorical sense. Would you correct the grammar, usage, and spelling Mark Twain deploys in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? Perish the thought! Twain skillfully uses vernacular to develop characters and lend realism to the setting and atmosphere of his novel.

Sort of like this blog.

See what I mean? I used a sentence fragment to emphasize the transition in topic. If this were a scholarly essay, I might have written, “Twain’s use of language to reinforce verisimilitude and offset pretentious delivery of the novel’s main message sets a precedent for twenty-first century web log authors whose rhetorical situation requires them to minimize the division between writer and audience, to bring writer and audience together metaphorically as friends chatting over cups of tea, much as Huck converses informally with his audience.”

I bet you prefer the fragment.

Language Nazis (like my young and silly self) have either lost or not yet learned perspective, and they inflate grammar and spelling errors to assume apocalyptic importance. They accost park rangers, send indignant emails to bloggers who dare misspell a word, and post unintentionally ironic comments on internet forums promoting rules that don’t exist.

Errors appear in even the most accomplished and meticulous writer’s work. Bloggers are rarely meticulous. If I spent as much time proof-reading and style-checking each blog post as I spent on my academic writing, I’d only be able to post once a month. Instead, I sit at my laptop and type like I talk, only funnier because I can go back and change things and reword and exaggerate for comic effect. This means I bend, break, and ignore many rules that I followed fanatically when I wrote my geeky master’s thesis. If I wrote my blog like I wrote my geeky master’s thesis, it’s unlikely you would read it. I wouldn’t.

The geek in me, however, couldn’t let go of the four possibly apocalyptic fiberglass horses on the flatbed. After a bit of research, I’m relieved to report that they were not a sign of the end of times. The Book of Revelation states that only one of the apocalyptic horses is white. The others are black, red, and pale (whatever that means). Not a bison-brown one in the lot.

What a relief.

Growing Up Too Fast

My son Nick is nine going on nineteen. He wants rights to which he isn’t entitled and for which he isn’t ready—just like every other nine year old on the planet. Unlike every other nine year old, however, Nick is what the parenting literature calls a strong-willed aggressive negotiator. These rare specimens of homo sapiens offspring have amazing powers of persuasion. They dazzle their parents with logic and double-speak and persistent questioning. When Nick wants something—information, permission, a toy—he keeps talking about it, like a pit bull that won’t let go of its prey, gnawing at the hapless victim until he gets what he wants.

We hope Nick uses his powers for good and not evil when he grows up. If he goes over to the dark side, he’ll make Darth Vader look like H.R. Pufnstuff.

You think I'm joking, don't you?

Take movies and television, for instance. Nick is constantly pushing the limits, trying to negotiate watching movies and shows that are not appropriate for his age or sensitive nature. Nick saw the box for Child’s Play at Best Buy. He asked George about it, and when George briefly explained that it was a horror movie and not appropriate for children, despite the title, Nick relentlessly pestered him to describe the movie.

Mind you, George went through military survival training and mastered all sorts of techniques to resist enemy interrogation, but under the relentless barrage of questions from his nine-year-old son, George finally caved and told him about the psychopathic, knife-wielding doll.

Later that day, Nick and I had the following conversation:

Nick: I know the difference between pretend and reality. I think I could watch Child’s Play.

Me: Nick, I won’t watch Child’s Play. Movies like that are gross and teach people that violence is funny or for entertainment. They teach people not to care about other people’s suffering.

Nick: What do you mean?

Me: Kids who see lots of violence on TV and in movies and games don’t care about real-life violence. One kid who watched movies like that drove past a terrible car accident with his mother. A woman was dead, and when he saw her body, he smiled and said, “Cool!” It was not cool. It was sad and horrible.

Nick: Well, Dad watches Saving Private Ryan.

Me: Saving Private Ryan is violent in a different way. It doesn’t glorify violence or death. It shows how horrible war is. No one would laugh or feel entertained at the violence in that movie. We won’t let you watch it until you are grown up and make the choice for yourself.

Nick: Well, I want to watch Child’s Play.

Me: When you grow up, you can make a choice about that, too.

Nick: I can’t wait to grow up. Really, Mom, I know I could handle that movie. Really.

Me: This discussion is over.

Nick: But, Mom….

Me: Let it go.

If I had let him, Nick would have kept this conversation going all afternoon. “Let it go” is a useful—and oft-repeated—phrase in our parenting repertoire.

That night, a few minutes after George and I put the boys to bed, Nick called for me to come upstairs.

Nick: You know, Mom, how Dad told me about the movie Child’s Play with the doll that kills people? Well, I keep thinking about that, and it’s scaring me. I can’t sleep. What do I do?

Me: Nick, it’s totally impossible for a doll to kill people. You need to think happy thoughts instead. Think about Pokemon or our trip to the zoo.

Nick: I can’t. The doll keeps coming into my mind. I don’t want it there!

Me: Would it help if we left the hall light on?

Nick [relieved]: Yes!

Isn’t it amazing how light scares away imaginary psychotic toys?

Sexual content is another sensitive subject. Nick still views girls as either platonic chums or cootie colonies, for which I am grateful. Sexual innuendo floats over Nick’s head for the time being, and he’s never asked anything about sex, other than questions about anatomical differences between boys and girls.

While walking with Nick and Jack to the pool recently, however, Nick sprang at me with this alarming topic:

Nick: Mom, guess what.

Me: What?

Nick: You know Wanda Sykes, the one in Over the Hedge? She’s in a commercial and, she says, “When you say, ‘That’s so gay,’ do you realize what you say? Knock it off.” In a commercial. What does “gay” mean, Mom?

Me [wondering where he saw this commercial and how he remembered the wording so perfectly when he cannot remember the sum of 8 plus 9]: Well, gay used to mean "happy." But these days it means something inappropriate for nine-year-olds.

Nick: At school, people use it to mean weird or strange or something, but I don’t think that can be right. I think they just mean geeky.

Me: You’re right; it doesn’t mean weird or strange.

Nick [sighing]: I wish I knew what it DOES mean.

Me: We’ll have this discussion another time.

Nick: When I’m ten?

Me: Let it go.

I know we need to have this conversation—and soon—but he sprang it on me so unexpectedly. My procedure for these ambushes is to play for time so I don’t say too much or the wrong thing.

Generally speaking, birds-and-bees talk doesn’t disturb me at all. I believe a matter-of-fact, sensible, and minimalist approach is best. When Nick was three and potty-training, I walked into the family room to find him exploring his privates.

Nick [in complete panic]: Mom, I have rocks in me!

Me: They are not rocks; they are t*sticles.

Nick: But I don’t want them! Take them out!

Me: No, you need them. Daddy has them, too. They make you a boy.

Nick: Really?

Me: Yes.

Nick: Are you sure?

Me: Positive.

Nick [still not entirely convinced]: Okay.

I deserve an award for not laughing through this exchange, don’t you think? The beauty of my response is how few words I used. Despite being loquacious by nature, I keep this stuff simple. But for some reason, when Nick threw the gay question at me, all I could think of were too many words. I have had a few days to edit myself, and next time the subject comes up, I’ll be prepared.

I just hope I can be as cool when he’s emitting body odor and sprouting hair in places currently bare and we have the conversation about keeping his manhood in his pants.

Where the hell is that instruction manual?

Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Mommy

Part 1
Introduction

I know what you’re thinking: what can classical rhetoric have to do with me, a modern mommy? Do I, as a mommy, need to know what topoi, ethos, dispositio, litotes, and sentence euphony mean? Isn’t it all Greek? Or is it Latin?

My friends, you may not know all the Greek and Latin terms used in classical rhetoric, but you encounter classical rhetoric every single day in what you say and what is said to you. Bear with me for a moment while I explain.

Generally speaking, classical rhetoric is poorly understood these days because it is no longer taught as a separate subject but integrated invisibly (and watered down) in standard English courses. This is one of the great tragedies of modern education. Most people define rhetoric, when they think of it at all, as language that is empty, misleading, overly embellished, or false. It is equated with doublespeak, jargon, political lies, and advertising.

In reality, rhetoric is all this and much, much more.

Consider the following useful definition:

Rhetoric is the deliberate manipulation of language to bring about a desired effect, action, or emotion in an audience.

Pretty neutral, isn’t it? Rhetoric can be used for good or evil, but it is neither. A person can manipulate language to persuade someone to get a colonoscopy (for good) or to choose an adjustable-rate mortgage they can’t afford (for evil). Rhetoric can be used to rivet your attention or bore you to death; to make you laugh so hard you pee your pants or cry like a little boy who just dropped his ice cream cone; to make you mindlessly spend gobs of money on useless crap or give gobs of money to find a cure for cancer.

Classical rhetoric, or the rhetoric taught in ancient Greece and Rome, is the systematic study of how language can do all this. There are lots of terms which have come to us in a mix of Latin or Greek that may seem complicated at first, but really, it all makes perfect sense.

Let’s consider the following statement: “My son is not the quiet type.” This is an example of litotes, or understatement, which often uses a negative to state a positive, as in “Beowulf did not lack courage when he ripped Grendel’s arms off.” He did, however, tick off Grendel’s mother with his “no lack of courage,” but that has nothing to do with rhetoric and I digress.

My point is, “my son is not the quiet type” sounds nicer than “my son can’t keep his mouth shut,” which is an example of hyperbole, or exaggeration. You might use litotes with your child’s teacher—you don’t want to prejudice him/her against your child but can’t lie, either, because he/she will figure out the truth eventually. Hyperbole, on the other hand, works well as a statement of complaint to your best friend, who does not hold your child’s future college prospects in her hands and will no doubt lend a sympathetic ear to your suffering.

See what I mean? You’re already using classical rhetoric without knowing it, but just imagine the power you could have if you knew enough to manipulate language deliberately to bring about a desired effect. And if you can consciously manipulate language, you will readily spot its use by others who wish to manipulate you.

Our little darlings can be amazingly skillful rhetoricians at a very young age. My own 8-year-old Odysseus* is a lovely example of a child who, left to his own devices, would have become master of the universe long ago if not for my ability to counter his devious rhetorical skills with very non-rhetorical discipline. Now that he is too big for me to pick up and carry to his room, however, my rhetorical skills are more important than ever.

Consider this real-life example of heuresis, or the discovery of multiple arguments, also referred to by the Latin term inventio. My little ones are not allowed to drink soda except under very special circumstances that involve unpleasant bodily fluids. Even then, they are limited to non-caffeinated options. One day recently, my son saw me drinking a can of coke that was labeled “decaffeinated.”

He can read now, which really complicates life, doesn’t it?

I saw his brain process this snippet of information and knew what was coming. In the chirpy tone of a physicist who just solved a sticky problem with string theory, he delivered the opening salvo of this rhetorical skirmish:

“Mom, that coke is decaffeinated. That means I can drink it!”

In this statement, we see logos at work. Logos, or an appeal to logic, is one of three types of appeals used in argument. In this particular case, however, my darling son’s logos fell to pieces in the face of my syllogism:

“Soda is bad for you. Decaffeinated coke is a soda. Therefore, decaffeinated coke is bad for you.”

Honestly, this syllogism is seriously flawed. “Bad” is a weak word, too vague to stand in court. What does it mean that soda is bad? Who determines soda is bad for you? But as sophisticated as he is, little Odysseus did not yet recognize this vulnerability in my argument, so he displayed his talent for heuresis and simply flexed to a different appeal. He came up with this beauty:

“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”

Ahhh. Pathos. The appeal to emotion. Let’s hear it again because it really shows a genius at work. Savor each word out loud in as pitiful a voice as you can muster:

“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”

Note the shift from “mom” to the more child-like “mommy.” Nice touch.

Some of you may have fallen for this verbal knife to the heart, but not me. The armor of rhetoric shields me from such attacks. I deflected his thrust with a hard-hitting combination of the “deliberative topic of the disadvantageous” (“soda rots your teeth and makes you fat”) and a somewhat unconventional reverse-psychology ethical appeal (“I hope you are smarter than your mother when you grow up and don’t drink soda”).

This rendered little Odysseus speechless. After all, mommy just implied that she isn’t smart, didn’t she? Hmm. He was stumped. For now. Eventually, these “shock and awe” tactics will no longer work, and he will find a way to use them against me, especially when he is a teenager and fully prepared to believe that mommy is more than just “not smart;” she is a complete and utter idiot.

Until then, I’ll brush up on my classical rhetoric in hopes of staying a step ahead of my little Odysseus. And since the benefits of classical rhetoric are not limited to parenting, I’ll also strengthen myself against the marketing folks trying to convince me I need an iPhone, the politicians vying for my vote, and my darling husband who, for some reason, doesn’t understand why I need to spend more money on rubber stamps.

As you can see, classical rhetoric is enormously useful for the modern mommy, and I hope you’ll stick around for periodic essays that explore the devious strategies our children use to manipulate us and even more devious strategies we can use to manipulate them.**


*Classical character of Greek epic poetry made famous to modern high school students by Homer, the blind—and completely fictitious—poet. Odysseus cunningly talks his way out of many a nasty scrape.
**If you have any examples of your children’s rhetorical skill, please email them to me for possible analysis on this blog. We can have A LOT of fun with this.