Posts tagged with education
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![The Last Book I Loved: History of the Peloponnesian War
The Last Book I Loved is an ongoing series with The Rumpus to highlight emerging Tumblr writers (and the books they love). Want to have your essay considered? Submit it here.
This is not an easy book to love. As an object, it is one of those books all of an age: squat, with yellowing, pulpy pages, the kind whose corners you can’t turn down because the paper creases so hard it that it might as well be perforated. Dog-ear it in the opposite direction and the corner comes off entirely. The print is small and dense; and it is a 2,400 year old account of a war that gets no press. It’s not sexy like the Fall of Troy, not Homerically epic. The gods don’t factor in. The content is almost as hard to love as the way I remember myself when the book first came to me.
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I was in eighth grade and my favorite aunt and uncle were moving to a new home. They were young — my aunt Patty is 18 years younger than my father, only eleven years older than I am, and she was everything that I thought was good and exciting in this world. She introduced me to Bon Jovi, and her boyfriend, who would later become my favorite uncle Shawn, had hair as long as hers. He played the drums and loved KISS, and though I never really liked KISS, I started playing the drums because of him. What made them so magnetic, though, was that they took me seriously, always. They took me seriously enough that when they were moving, Shawn opened up his boxes of college textbooks and pulled out a few he thought I would like. One was Thucydides. I don’t remember the others, but I remember that I was the kind of young person an adult (a really groovy adult) thought would like this book. Which is to say I was a grandiose, pretentious little shit. My one defense, perhaps, was that I did actually read the Impressive Books I carried around. If I was pretentious, at least I tried to be an authentic kind of pretentious. I don’t know that I read them well, but read them I did — except Thucydides.
Even at the height of my Homer fanaticism, I don’t remember even opening this book, or even looking at the table of contents. That was 17 years ago.Three degrees. Four moves to four different states. In all of that time, I’ve done nothing more with Thucydides than shelve and unshelve it, box and unbox. Better, more well-loved books have been given away in all of those moves. It’s not even that it has sentimental value — Shawn likely doesn’t even remember that I have it. I don’t think we ever had a conversation about anything approaching the topic, either. I’ve thrown away their wedding card (and everyone else’s). Why keep this book?
The only answer I can think of is that this book was a gauntlet. It’s not that anyone threw it at my feet in challenge, but there it was, the unread reminder, until this past summer.
I was having a conversation on Twitter with a person who I have never actually met, but whose writing I admire and who I like all out of proportion to how much we actually know each other (basically not at all). He brought up The Peloponnesian Waras a personal favorite. All day every day I see people online praising and recommending books, and sometimes I read them but more often I don’t. I’m not sure what about this conversation actually made me pick up Thucydides, but I did. What I found was a strange and most welcome kind of company. It isn’t that Thucydides’ writing (albeit in translation) had anything in common with my own, but (odd as it seems) he sounds like people I know. The sentences are dry and acerbic and often palpably exasperated. In commenting on the Trojan War, Thucydides writes,
[T]here is no reason why we should not believe that the Trojan expedition was the greatest that had ever taken place. It is equally true that it was not on the scale of what is done in modern warfare. It is questionable whether we can have complete confidence in Homer’s figures, which, since he was a poet, were probably exaggerated.
Fucking poets (and so say many of us, particularly as we understand that, for Thucydides, the “poet” was anyone involved in the creation of story — whether it was song or play or fireside tale). I am reminded of the person who recommended the book to me, whose incredibly low threshold for bullshit is something I frankly envy. I am reminded of my graduate school friend Patrick, who was cynical, impatient, and incredibly brusque, and also one of the most intelligent, most secretly kind people I’ve ever met.
I love this book for what feel like the wrong reasons. I am used to loving books for their story or their language or the very construction of their sentences — something that says content in one way or another. But I have to admit to only the most passing interest in the matter of the Peloponnesian War. The pretentious eighth grader in me is gratified to know a bit more about it, to say “look at this knowledge I now have,” but the rest of me is often bored by the minutiae of negotiations as Thucydides relates them, and relate them he does. The book contains set speeches, the terms of treaties — as one expects a solid history to do. But there’s also a lot of commentary on the process, on the state of humanity, and Thucydides asks the same questions we are still asking. Thucydides shakes the same crotchety finger I shake at my composition students:
In investigating past history, and in forming the conclusions which I have formed, it must be admitted that one cannot rely on every detail which has come down to us by way of tradition. People are inclined to accept all stories of ancient times in an uncritical way — even when these stories concern their own native countries … Most people, in fact, will not take trouble in finding out the truth, but are much more inclined to accept the first story they hear.
And yet, Thucydides is no particularly objective recorder. In discussing his methods for relaying those speeches, he writes,
I have found it difficult to remember the precise words used in the speeches which I listened to myself and my various informants have experienced the same difficulty; so my method has been, while keeping as closely as possible to the general sense of the words that were actually used, to make the speakers say what, in my opinion, was called for by each situation.
Thucydides faces the creative nonfiction writer’s dilemma but demonstrates not the slightest bit of doubt in approaching it. He has found his solution to his own satisfaction, and he pushes on, recreating long verbal missives from one camp to another, from one tyrant to the next. It is impossible to read forward with complete academic confidence, then — he confesses to taking liberties not three paragraphs beyond the imprecation to never take anything at face value. But he admits to the taking of liberties, and the prose is so emphatic, so certain. I seldom feel so convinced by myself. I wedge my fingertips between the pages and believe in osmosis.
The translator’s note in my edition, written by Rex Warner, begins, “It is difficult, pleasurable, and bold to attempt to translate Thucydides into English.” Warner’s note explores the doubt that underwrites translation as a whole, the knowledge that something will inevitably be lost in the process, but also that there is so much to be gained from the task. Warner nearly apologizes for his work, but he seems unable to keep himself from attempting the challenge of Thucydides. I like to believe that that’s what my uncle Shawn was thinking when he gave such a book to an adolescent: in reading it well before I was of an age or an experience to understand more than simply the words and events, something would inevitably be lost, if I ever even read it. Reading Thucydides would be difficult, but maybe I would feel bold in doing so, and either in the content or the undertaking, I might find something pleasurable.
I didn’t read it then, and having read it now, I don’t feel bold. The reading was difficult — I couldn’t let my attention lapse for a sentence or two, couldn’t skim if I wanted to know the fullness of the events. I did lapse, though. I did skim. Ultimately, I didn’t care as much as I wanted to about the debate at Camarina. But in Thucydides’s tone, in his interrogation of uncertain facts and his assertion of his own reconstructions, in the way the act of reading re-tied me to people — no matter how little-known or now-distant — there was familiarity and connection, and I can think of no greater pleasure.
— Holly M. Wendt](http://25.media.tumblr.com/8f58b77a94cf012daa9fd5791df4a596/tumblr_mjb78zK0d21rrpm57o1_1280.jpg)
The Last Book I Loved: History of the Peloponnesian War
The Last Book I Loved is an ongoing series with The Rumpus to highlight emerging Tumblr writers (and the books they love). Want to have your essay considered? Submit it here.
This is not an easy book to love. As an object, it is one of those books all of an age: squat, with yellowing, pulpy pages, the kind whose corners you can’t turn down because the paper creases so hard it that it might as well be perforated. Dog-ear it in the opposite direction and the corner comes off entirely. The print is small and dense; and it is a 2,400 year old account of a war that gets no press. It’s not sexy like the Fall of Troy, not Homerically epic. The gods don’t factor in. The content is almost as hard to love as the way I remember myself when the book first came to me.
View post 3,161 notes -
![Black History Is American History
Think of Black History Month, and chances are you think in turn of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., maybe Marcus Garvey. It’s a familiar group — and that, says Alex Pierce, is precisely the problem. “It’s become a way to pack a few hundred years of history into one 28-day month of the year,” the Texas-based designer and art director says. And so this month, Pierce launched Black in History, a blog to highlight the accomplishments of influencers like Gerald Anderson Lawson, the inventor of the video game console, Roy L. Clay Sr., the “Black Godfather of Silicon Valley,” and jazz great Nat King Cole. We talked to Pierce about his love/hate relationship with Black History Month.
Your day job is in advertising. Has that made you a cynic?
I would say I’m more sensitive than some to the strange relationship advertising has with black people. It’s not all bad, believe me, but I do cringe when Black History Month comes rolling around and a few brands decide to change their jingles to soul-R&B music and feature more colorful people in their broadcast spots and print ads. My family laughs about it all the time. I get it — it’s a great way to tie your brand to an important message while selling some stuff. I’m not necessarily against that. It’s just when it’s done bad, it’s pretty bad. Black history in a lot of advertising has become a way to say something without really saying anything at all.
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You write in your introduction that the site is “in honor, or in spite” of Black History Month. What do you mean by that?
I guess where I was coming from was that I do appreciate there is a Black History Month. But I think at the same time, black history has been reduced to the same conversations about MLK Jr, George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman, and the other more highly publicized black Americans. There’s just so much more to that.
Indeed, the people on your site aren’t the usual suspects.
Part of my frustration was that by primarily focusing on the person’s race and tying it to their accomplishments, you’re kind of saying “Hey, he/she did a lot of cool stuff for a black person to do back then.” I’m not saying it isn’t significant that some of the people on my list were the “First African American to ____”. I’m saying that they’re more than just being the first person of their race to do something. For instance, Granville Woods is called the “Black Edison,” as if he didn’t make a name for himself on his own merits. He got over 50 patents, a lot of which involved improving and innovating the railroad industry. Thomas Edison tried claim one of Woods’ patents as his own invention twice in court. (And Edison lost twice.) The message I wanted to share with this site was that the things these people did influenced everyone’s lives in many ways other than advancing social progress, or civil rights. These people made contributions to society in ways everyone can relate to.
What about your audience? You ask people to submit names, while pointing out that “You don’t have to be black to do it.”
Sometimes I get the impression Black History Month is targeted more toward black people, which I find ironic. I also wanted to let everyone take a little bit of ownership by contributing a name they think should be on the list. This is also why I chose Tumblr; it’s the easiest and and most convenient way for people to send information to me. And everyone has a different take or perspective. There’s gonna be things I miss or people that are off my radar. There’s a lot of black people out there. Contrary to the myth, I do not know all of them. That would be cool wouldn’t it though?
— Jesse EllisonPhotographs from the William P. Gottlieb Collection / Wikimedia Commons.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/2c85d0e53c5635f6cb2fab9580f2cd9e/tumblr_mifp0sJJBF1rrpm57o3_1280.jpg)
![Black History Is American History
Think of Black History Month, and chances are you think in turn of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., maybe Marcus Garvey. It’s a familiar group — and that, says Alex Pierce, is precisely the problem. “It’s become a way to pack a few hundred years of history into one 28-day month of the year,” the Texas-based designer and art director says. And so this month, Pierce launched Black in History, a blog to highlight the accomplishments of influencers like Gerald Anderson Lawson, the inventor of the video game console, Roy L. Clay Sr., the “Black Godfather of Silicon Valley,” and jazz great Nat King Cole. We talked to Pierce about his love/hate relationship with Black History Month.
Your day job is in advertising. Has that made you a cynic?
I would say I’m more sensitive than some to the strange relationship advertising has with black people. It’s not all bad, believe me, but I do cringe when Black History Month comes rolling around and a few brands decide to change their jingles to soul-R&B music and feature more colorful people in their broadcast spots and print ads. My family laughs about it all the time. I get it — it’s a great way to tie your brand to an important message while selling some stuff. I’m not necessarily against that. It’s just when it’s done bad, it’s pretty bad. Black history in a lot of advertising has become a way to say something without really saying anything at all.
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You write in your introduction that the site is “in honor, or in spite” of Black History Month. What do you mean by that?
I guess where I was coming from was that I do appreciate there is a Black History Month. But I think at the same time, black history has been reduced to the same conversations about MLK Jr, George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman, and the other more highly publicized black Americans. There’s just so much more to that.
Indeed, the people on your site aren’t the usual suspects.
Part of my frustration was that by primarily focusing on the person’s race and tying it to their accomplishments, you’re kind of saying “Hey, he/she did a lot of cool stuff for a black person to do back then.” I’m not saying it isn’t significant that some of the people on my list were the “First African American to ____”. I’m saying that they’re more than just being the first person of their race to do something. For instance, Granville Woods is called the “Black Edison,” as if he didn’t make a name for himself on his own merits. He got over 50 patents, a lot of which involved improving and innovating the railroad industry. Thomas Edison tried claim one of Woods’ patents as his own invention twice in court. (And Edison lost twice.) The message I wanted to share with this site was that the things these people did influenced everyone’s lives in many ways other than advancing social progress, or civil rights. These people made contributions to society in ways everyone can relate to.
What about your audience? You ask people to submit names, while pointing out that “You don’t have to be black to do it.”
Sometimes I get the impression Black History Month is targeted more toward black people, which I find ironic. I also wanted to let everyone take a little bit of ownership by contributing a name they think should be on the list. This is also why I chose Tumblr; it’s the easiest and and most convenient way for people to send information to me. And everyone has a different take or perspective. There’s gonna be things I miss or people that are off my radar. There’s a lot of black people out there. Contrary to the myth, I do not know all of them. That would be cool wouldn’t it though?
— Jesse EllisonPhotographs from the William P. Gottlieb Collection / Wikimedia Commons.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/e91f96d1b7731c8bf0648624a777166b/tumblr_mifp0sJJBF1rrpm57o1_1280.jpg)
![Black History Is American History
Think of Black History Month, and chances are you think in turn of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., maybe Marcus Garvey. It’s a familiar group — and that, says Alex Pierce, is precisely the problem. “It’s become a way to pack a few hundred years of history into one 28-day month of the year,” the Texas-based designer and art director says. And so this month, Pierce launched Black in History, a blog to highlight the accomplishments of influencers like Gerald Anderson Lawson, the inventor of the video game console, Roy L. Clay Sr., the “Black Godfather of Silicon Valley,” and jazz great Nat King Cole. We talked to Pierce about his love/hate relationship with Black History Month.
Your day job is in advertising. Has that made you a cynic?
I would say I’m more sensitive than some to the strange relationship advertising has with black people. It’s not all bad, believe me, but I do cringe when Black History Month comes rolling around and a few brands decide to change their jingles to soul-R&B music and feature more colorful people in their broadcast spots and print ads. My family laughs about it all the time. I get it — it’s a great way to tie your brand to an important message while selling some stuff. I’m not necessarily against that. It’s just when it’s done bad, it’s pretty bad. Black history in a lot of advertising has become a way to say something without really saying anything at all.
[[MORE]]
You write in your introduction that the site is “in honor, or in spite” of Black History Month. What do you mean by that?
I guess where I was coming from was that I do appreciate there is a Black History Month. But I think at the same time, black history has been reduced to the same conversations about MLK Jr, George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman, and the other more highly publicized black Americans. There’s just so much more to that.
Indeed, the people on your site aren’t the usual suspects.
Part of my frustration was that by primarily focusing on the person’s race and tying it to their accomplishments, you’re kind of saying “Hey, he/she did a lot of cool stuff for a black person to do back then.” I’m not saying it isn’t significant that some of the people on my list were the “First African American to ____”. I’m saying that they’re more than just being the first person of their race to do something. For instance, Granville Woods is called the “Black Edison,” as if he didn’t make a name for himself on his own merits. He got over 50 patents, a lot of which involved improving and innovating the railroad industry. Thomas Edison tried claim one of Woods’ patents as his own invention twice in court. (And Edison lost twice.) The message I wanted to share with this site was that the things these people did influenced everyone’s lives in many ways other than advancing social progress, or civil rights. These people made contributions to society in ways everyone can relate to.
What about your audience? You ask people to submit names, while pointing out that “You don’t have to be black to do it.”
Sometimes I get the impression Black History Month is targeted more toward black people, which I find ironic. I also wanted to let everyone take a little bit of ownership by contributing a name they think should be on the list. This is also why I chose Tumblr; it’s the easiest and and most convenient way for people to send information to me. And everyone has a different take or perspective. There’s gonna be things I miss or people that are off my radar. There’s a lot of black people out there. Contrary to the myth, I do not know all of them. That would be cool wouldn’t it though?
— Jesse EllisonPhotographs from the William P. Gottlieb Collection / Wikimedia Commons.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/83076b469caa6c7addfe38f2475a7e43/tumblr_mifp0sJJBF1rrpm57o2_1280.jpg)
Black History Is American History
Think of Black History Month, and chances are you think in turn of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., maybe Marcus Garvey. It’s a familiar group — and that, says Alex Pierce, is precisely the problem. “It’s become a way to pack a few hundred years of history into one 28-day month of the year,” the Texas-based designer and art director says. And so this month, Pierce launched Black in History, a blog to highlight the accomplishments of influencers like Gerald Anderson Lawson, the inventor of the video game console, Roy L. Clay Sr., the “Black Godfather of Silicon Valley,” and jazz great Nat King Cole. We talked to Pierce about his love/hate relationship with Black History Month.
Your day job is in advertising. Has that made you a cynic?
I would say I’m more sensitive than some to the strange relationship advertising has with black people. It’s not all bad, believe me, but I do cringe when Black History Month comes rolling around and a few brands decide to change their jingles to soul-R&B music and feature more colorful people in their broadcast spots and print ads. My family laughs about it all the time. I get it — it’s a great way to tie your brand to an important message while selling some stuff. I’m not necessarily against that. It’s just when it’s done bad, it’s pretty bad. Black history in a lot of advertising has become a way to say something without really saying anything at all.
View post 3,678 notes -
![The Last Book I Loved: Brown Girl, Brownstones
The Last Book I Loved is an ongoing series with The Rumpus to highlight emerging Tumblr writers (and the books they love). Want to have your essay considered? Submit it here.
My dreams, for so long unrestrained by land, air, or even death — and frequently including scenes of me tumbling through the air on glossy black feathered wings or jumping into an abyss with a smile on my face — now generally take place in a building with four walls and a roof. I dream of houses. I dream of owning a home, post-Great Recession, and despite the weight of federal student loans on my back. I am frequently visited by visions of curtains that open up to reveal a cold sunlight in the morning, of a cubbyhole library, perhaps in the attic, and of backyards that lend themselves to Slip ‘n Slides and crisp autumnal leaf piles. I would dream of brownstones, except I’m in the wrong tax bracket. Crippling pragmatism happens sometimes.
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Occasionally, after these fantasies, I return to Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones, originally published in 1959 by Random House. As with many books, my allegiances to certain characters evolve over time and with age. As a teenager, Beneatha Younger from Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun was my afro-haired spirit animal, always being smacked down (literally) by the elders in her life for her spunk and willingness to redefine her place as a black woman in America and in her family, always questioning and never satisfied. Just before I turned 30, and after a couple of failed relationships with men who had ill-defined or nonexistent ambitions, my allegiances turned to Beneatha’s sister-in-law, Ruth Younger. Ruth, who did so much and asked for so little, who faced economic realities that caused her to consider an abortion while her husband was waxing poetic about liquor stores.
In Brown Girl, Brownstones, which I read two years ago, I started out heavily involved with and invested in the protagonist, Selina Boyce — a second generation Bajan-American living in Brooklyn — and have lately embraced Selina’s mother, Silla, who is similar to my own mother and her American dream-centered ambitions. A South Side Chicago girl (Chatham to be precise) with college-educated parents, my mother gave directives to her female offspring that were very clear: get good grades, do a stint in Jack and Jill, go to college, avoid out-of-wedlock births, procure a good job and, perhaps later, a husband and children. In that exact order.
Selina is given similar instructions from her mother, who dreams of owning a Brooklyn brownstone: join the Barbadian church group, get good grades, become a doctor, meet an “acceptable” guy — a member of the community — and buy a brownstone. In that exact order. Though the story focuses on Selina’s coming of age in terms of her ethnicity, class, and sexuality (it is no accident that subsequent editions of the book were published by the Feminist Press at the City University of New York), it is Silla’s dreams of owning a brownstone that haunt me.
This is not to say that Selina’s struggle is any less compelling. Her teenage rebellion, culminating in a dramatic outburst intent on embarrassing her mother, struck a note in me, as I pulled a similarly childish stunt during a Jack and Jill conference while in high school. How clever I thought I was, railing against bougie pretensions in that petulant teenage pitch (you know the one). Yet in my thirties, I find myself comparing my life to my mother’s at this same age, understanding what she wanted of me and desiring it on my own. Career. Husband. Children. House. In that order. A yard built for raising a family and upon one can look out on from behind the aforementioned curtains, watching the world go by.
Silla is portrayed as cruel and oppressive, unyielding. Her children fear her; her husband Deighton spites her. “For always the mother’s voice was a net flung wide, ensnaring all within its reach,” Marshall writes. Through Selina’s eyes, Silla is like a chapter from the Book of Ruth, Hansberry edition, without the empathy. Yet, as a 30-something woman, I can understand how she might have turned so bitter, so angry, raising three children in poverty while her husband pursued whims like being a trumpet player, an accountant, a radio repairman, or a car mechanic with the unrealistic fervor reserved for buying lotto tickets, and leaving Silla to be the main financial contributor. She earns her family’s money as a domestic, dealing with subtle and aggressive racism all day long while working on her knees. Her desire to own four walls and a roof are simple in comparison. The brutal way Silla and Deighton wreck each other midway through the book, I see years later, as a commentary on how easily the American dream and capitalism can corrupt even the most earnest desires.
Reading the contrasts between Selina and Silla reminds me of a stretch of time in my twenties. It’s a period in which you feel smugly certain that your life is vastly different from your mother’s. You don’t imagine that your mother fell in love with inappropriate men and had sex just because she liked a guy’s dimples. You don’t imagine that your mom wanted to take off and live in another city to live a grand adventure, or explored bohemian scenes, or lived selfishly, or did only things to please herself — sleeping until noon, smoking, or leaving work early. So you do those things with gusto and abandon, but before you know it, you are speaking to a child in the same way your mother spoke to you, or giving your boss the same look your mom gave you when she knew you were lying.
At a critical point in Brown Girl, Brownstones, Selina makes peace with the ways she is like her mother, in a quietly devastating way.
“Everybody used to call me Deighton’s Selina but they were wrong. Because you see I’m truly your child. Remember how you used to talk about how you left home and came here alone as a girl of eighteen and was your own woman? I used to love hearing that. And that’s what I want. I want it!”
Silla’s pained eyes searched her adamant face, and after a long time a wistfulness softened her mouth. It was as if she somehow glimpsed in Selina the girl she had always been.
The summer I read this book, I made a similar peace with my mother. I began calling and Skyping home more, trying to bridge a physical distance of more than 900 miles. On holidays, we’re hugging more, and listening. I’ve inherited her voice and wry mannerisms. I’ve fulfilled some of both of our desires, but I understand more about her extremely rich experiences. I imagine that a Brown Girl, Brownstones sequel would show Selina, back in Brooklyn after her excursion to Barbados, shaking her head knowingly at a young, Angela Davis-crowned version of herself. She would probably tell her to mind the bohemians and beware of men with idle hearts and hands. The daughter will pursue her own dreams, evolving over time, just as her mother once also did.
— Stacie Williams](http://25.media.tumblr.com/8eab767f8ceee6570f7e165582a3b8e8/tumblr_mila5fzvzp1rrpm57o1_r2_1280.jpg)
The Last Book I Loved: Brown Girl, Brownstones
The Last Book I Loved is an ongoing series with The Rumpus to highlight emerging Tumblr writers (and the books they love). Want to have your essay considered? Submit it here.
My dreams, for so long unrestrained by land, air, or even death — and frequently including scenes of me tumbling through the air on glossy black feathered wings or jumping into an abyss with a smile on my face — now generally take place in a building with four walls and a roof. I dream of houses. I dream of owning a home, post-Great Recession, and despite the weight of federal student loans on my back. I am frequently visited by visions of curtains that open up to reveal a cold sunlight in the morning, of a cubbyhole library, perhaps in the attic, and of backyards that lend themselves to Slip ‘n Slides and crisp autumnal leaf piles. I would dream of brownstones, except I’m in the wrong tax bracket. Crippling pragmatism happens sometimes.
View post 1,462 notes -
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
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We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://25.media.tumblr.com/3c84fc1ae00d679e6d44e6b999b65370/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o2_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://24.media.tumblr.com/56d547037f2807d34139206c30c9f7e7/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o7_r1_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://25.media.tumblr.com/c57bf56805dbac529ccd29f619c97334/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o8_r1_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://25.media.tumblr.com/30c7aa27108cbfcf7a0839795619c8fe/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o3_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://24.media.tumblr.com/515b2cebcd7fe24f93b0b3ac7700d04d/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o4_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://24.media.tumblr.com/15bb0473b99d0f78439a990491f4bfd0/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o1_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://25.media.tumblr.com/d286a19889748b50041799520d3f06a4/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o5_1280.jpg)
![Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
[[MORE]]
We are overwhelmed: residents like me, who were lucky enough to have our children come home that night; town leaders struggling to support the community and deal with the deluge of letters, toys, school supplies, and other donations sent to Newtown; and the volunteers who have been opening and sorting it all.
The spontaneous outdoor memorials that sprang up in Newtown after the shootings — the angels, teddy bears, Christmas trees, and other displays — became one of the symbols of this tragedy. But the many letters and cards and drawings that were mailed are less well known.
In their shock and grief, people were compelled to make these intensely raw, personal expressions, and send them to a town they probably hadn’t heard of before, not knowing if they would even reach us. They offered help, love, condolences, prayers. They came from children, parents, families, school classes, church groups, soldiers, mayors, survivors, inmates, and entire towns. The letters on display at town hall form a massive tapestry of a world’s sorrow.
When my wife and I visited them in early January, we ended up taking hundreds of photos, returning again and again. Others have been moved to do the same.
The town very respectfully cleared away most of the outdoor public memorials after a couple of weeks for incineration, the ash to be incorporated into a future permanent memorial site. When it announced that it would be doing the same with the cards and letters, we knew we had to try to save them. The town is emotionally overtaxed and lacks the funds and space to preserve them. But they are important to save — as an ongoing reminder of what happened and as a record of the world’s response.
So I reached out to the editors of Mother Jones, who’d published my account of the day of the shooting. They in turn reached out to Tumblr, and together we launched this project. We already have thousands of images, we’re gathering more, and we’ll be publishing batches every day until we run out. We have approached town officials about creating an extensive digital archive; it is my hope that we might also find a physical home for all these letters. Because the wisdom they express should not be lost to history. Take the words of one little girl named Brynn:
“Dear students and staff. I am sorry about your friends. I hope your school is safe from now on. I feel so bad for you. I don’t like to see people go. I am so sad. I wish people would stop being so mean.”
— Ross MacDonald](http://25.media.tumblr.com/068441700c65819d71135e12b02ed97b/tumblr_mhtzpqrwkz1rrpm57o6_1280.jpg)
Letters to Newtown: Preserving 500,000 Messages of Hope & Sorrow
This story was produced in partnership with Mother Jones and Newtown resident Ross MacDonald. For more information about the Letters to Newtown project, follow MoJo’s newly-launched Tumblr.
Walk into the Newtown town hall, and you see bin after bin of cards and letters — some 500,000 at least, more arriving every day. They line both sides of the long main hall and fill up the branching halls and offices. Posters, paintings, quilts, and flags cover the walls. There are banners from students at Columbine and Virginia Tech; there are letters from school kids across America and from people as far away as France and Australia. And there are boxes of Kleenex on every table for those who read them.
View post 2,139 notes -
![Language Is a Virus: How Loanwords Move the World’s Tongues
There are an estimated 6,700 to 6,900 languages in the world today, and they drift through the air like a meteorological echo — Hello! Hallo! Allô! — a roll of thunder or a set of bird calls off in the corner of the ear and the eye. And accompanying every tongue are loanwords, or, rather, lehnwerts, the tin-eared telephone line tossed from house to house, the improvised bridge of a tree knocked across a river’s expanse, or, more prosaically, words one “borrows” from one language into another. Loanwords explain how and why English speakers can say things like Frankfurter, pretzel, hinterland, dreck, or kaput without their conversational co-conspirator batting an eye.
[[MORE]]
Loanwords imply a certain baseline of connectivity. Though it’s hard to imagine one unified language, a transnational tongue in which all the work is finished and everything is “just so,” it’s equally difficult to imagine a language perfectly shattered. To weave between the two means not only wandering into a news kiosk with newspapers from all over the world — as I’m currently doing in Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts — but enlisting the Tumblr community, too, whether they’re chronicling “Polyglot Problems” —
— or whether they’re just an average citizen, like Cheila Sousa — a student in Portugal who had caught a cold, and — in her words — “now wears big sweaters, scarfs, and tissues all the time.”
As for linguistic activity already happening, you can see Mehreen Kasana translate “Haters gonna hate” into Urdu as “Nafrat karne walay nafrat karain ge.” You can watch one blogger try to say “Good night” in Khmer — the language of Cambodia — by saying “Reil drai soos day” and read the confused hotel staff’s reply, “… real dry Tuesday?” Otherwordly blogs about untranslatable words like “kintsukuroi.” Lingua Fandom re-blogs the idea of keyboard smashes being dubbed “typerventilating.” Rzeczpospolita Polska blogs out individual Polish words, like “Biba” (party) or “Mnie to rybka” (literally — “It’s a fish to me,” but it means, “I don’t care”). One blogger started The Polyglot Playlist and told me that they enjoyed catching phrases more common to vernacular than what the dictionary said and ordained, i.e., “In one Arabic song a woman says a man’s eyes look like ‘a painting drawn in childhood.’ Its literal meaning is confusing when translated, but in Arabic it means that he has ‘innocent eyes’ or he is ‘childishly innocent (naive.)’”
If we start the figurative daisy chain with German — the language of Goethe, Schiller, Casper, Prinz Pi, Sebald, and others, the language of the “Blaue Stunde” and “Seeräuberjenny” — and ask a German teenager of a word both simultaneously German and Dutch that comes to mind, we get “helden,” heroes, which in turn summons phrases like, “Een held op sokken” (a hero without socks), or the gently chastising “Du bist mir vielleicht ein Held” (“You are to me, perhaps, a hero”); and if we ask Dutch student Ceyda Dilek — Dutch being the language of “Honkbal” (which came about in defiance of German occupiers and fills the summer soccer gap), Van Gogh, fietsen, and Harry Mulisch — for a word simultaneously French and Dutch, we get “etage” (“floor,” which is étage in French). And which — in part — brings to mind the work of Heidi, who sketched this out — — and has more like it on her blog. If we reach out to someone in France — French being the language of Ben L’Oncle Soul and the European Court of Justice and people who argue like dopes about Celine on shows about books — and we ask for a word in Romanian, we could get “Eugène Ionesco” or “Tristan Tzara,” but we could get masculin, feminin, bebe, a construi and construire, and a whole host of others; and if we ask a Romanian — Romanian being the language of youthful words, as one blogger pointed out to me, like “jumbix” and “smardoi” (“fellow” and “fight”), and old words too, like bălan (blond) and vârtos (imposing because of muscle mass) — for a word simultaneously Romanian and Turkish, we get talaz (wave) and dovleak/dövlek (pumpkin). If we ask a Turk — Turkish being the language of Yakup Kadri, Resat Nuri, Halide Edip, Aka Gunduz, Faruk Nafiz, Orhan Seyfi, of Ataturk reading a book by the Hungarian linguist Gyula Nemeth and seeing a Latinized Turkish as the way to go forward in the century, of Fenerbahçe chants filling the stands — for a word simultaneously Turkish and Persian, we get lutfen and lutfan (لطفا), as in, “Please,” or “hava” (هوا) which means, “air/weather”; and if ask an Iranian for a word that is the same in both Farsi and Arabic, we get ketab and kutub (book), or — as it should be written — كتاب and كتب; and if we ask Anna for a word in both Arabic and Hebrew, we get “Yalla Balagan,” which Anna — who blogs at Fire in the Heart — told me is used by Israelis so much, “and it means, basically, like, ‘Let’s go crazy,’ and ‘yalla’ is Arabic — ‘balagan,’ I think, is originally Persian” (though that is a bit of a cheat). And if we want to take a break before we tug at another portion of the daisy chain, we can switch to ASL, American Sign Language, and move our hands in the silence (to play off the idea of “typerventilating.” One Tumblr user realized that if they learned ASL, they could do “visual keymash”), a language which deals with loanwords just the same as any other, whether it’s in watching Stephen Fry’s Planet Word to see how you say “Obama” (an “O” turning over and becoming an American flag flapping in the wind) or in breaking down fingerspellings into current usage, i.e., “B-A-C-K” becoming “B-K,” or the verb “to train” becoming “practice” with the letter ‘T’ at the front, “society” becoming S + “group,” or “twin” becoming T + “to be born,” as Julie Weisenberg at SUNY Stony Brook points out in an excellent paper.
Some would argue that the gaps are already somewhat apparent, and that’s partially true. You can’t walk “etage” from one side of a country’s border to the other and expect life to crack golden and open in front of you like a great ephemeral egg.
Yet it’s also worth noting that there are thousands and thousands of flights per day. Borders are repeatedly crossed with elan. In 2008, there are some estimates that put worldwide commercial flights at 93,000 per day; this year, there are some estimates that put it topping 100,000. That has a consequence for language. Sixty million people pass through Heathrow Airport outside London every year, which means it and others like it are a place where — as one photographer who had a ten-hour layover in Tokyo after visiting Catalunya told me — one can “practice speaking other languages, even if it’s only a few words, to ask for a bottle of water or a sandwich, for example.”
In the Netherlands, for instance, there’s a library smack dab in the middle of Schiphol Airport. Simple practice of briarpatch words has a chance to explode into an out-and-out forest. The librarian even has a Twitter account, chronicling when the Turkish books go missing and reappear again and other items of incident.
There you could probably find Shakespeare in every tongue, whether it’s Boris Pasternak — Nobel Prize winner and author of Doctor Zhivago — translating Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Othello, King Henry IV, Macbeth, and King Lear into Russian, mysteriously excising references to corruption in Hamlet, deflating the sexuality of Hamlet, Cordeilia, Othello, and Desdemona, and translating “Is this a dagger I see before me?” into “Where did you come from, dagger?”. Or whether it’s Nicanor Parra — the great Chilean anti-poet — translating King Lear into lines that swim, i.e., “Este es el maligno Flibbertigibett. / Aparece a la hora de queda / Y se marcha al primer canto del gallo / Transmite la catarata.” Or even Hamlet in Italian, Arabic, or Polish, or King Lear in Hindi or Mandarin, or any of these at all.
But our daisy chain has been left languishing, and we’ve yet to tie other languages to it, like the language that — as Gregory Rabassa — translator of Julio Cortazar, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Mario Vargas Llosa, Antonio Lobo Antunes, and others — put it, sounds like a kind of string quartet: Portuguese, a language wherein one screenwriter in Lisbon said her favorite phrases included “engolir um sapo,” (as in, swallow a toad, as in, eating crow), “não chegar aos calcanhares de” (to not reach the heels of = to not be nearly as good as), or “pôr o carro à frente dos bois” (get your cart in front of your oxen = to get ahead of yourself); a language where Cheila Sousa said she likes “the way people from Açores talk. The most common Portuguese accents are from there and from Porto — it’s where people talk very differently and are sometimes even hard to understand, which can be somehow funny.”
If we are to look for a word that exists simultaneously in Portuguese and Japanese — Portuguese being the language of Jorge Ben Jor, Gilberto Gil, O Folha de SP, and Sócrates, Japanese being the language of Haruki Murakami and the homeland of haiku and Kurosawa and Ozu and so much more — we can pick candeia, candle, which is properly written as “カンデヤ” and pronounced the same. And if we are to look for a word that is both Japanese and Korean — Korean being home to a carbon-copy of Saturday Night Live of its own (weirdly and wonderfully) — we can settle our finger on (as they’d write in Japanese) “玉” and (as they’d write in Korean) “다마,” pronounced as “da-ma,” meaning (for a time) “lightbulb,” shifting its meaning to “bead” in Korean, and eventually being consigned to the linga-franca of an older generation that was once occupied by the Japanese, though its meaning is still known today. I had thought of writing out similarities as they are in Romanized script, i.e., “jurumi” meaning “relaxed” or ‘’kagami” (JP) and “kakami” (KR) meaning “mirror,” but that’s not entirely fair.
And if we wish to use a word that’s both Korean and Italian, we can use 비엔날레 — or, rather, “biennale,” which are both pronounced the same and mean the same thing (a large art exhibition/festival); and if are to use a word that’s simultaneously Italian and Polish — Italian being the language of clunky atonality and Polish being the language of Jerzy Pilch, Wisława Szymborska, and Kieślowski — we land on tomato, which is “pomodoro” in Italian and “pomidor” in Polish.
“I recommend listening to Polish hooligans and their language,” Karolina Zawadzka — an architecture student tumbling in Warsaw — told me. “We have a word ‘pierdolic’ and it is something like ‘fuck.’ If you want, you can add a few letters and create other words like odpierdol sie (fuck off), pierdol sie (fuck you), napierdolic sie (to get drunk or beat someone) and many more. It’s really common and everyone uses it. But I’m trying to avoid swearing. Women shouldn’t speak like that. … Once, when I was watching tv, a reporter was talking about landing of Dreamliner in Poland. He said he didn’t like the name and proposed to call it ‘Marzenka’ which made me laugh so hard because Marzenka is a diminutive of the Polish name Marzena, constructed of the word marzenia (dreams) and marzyć (to dream.)”
And if we want to leave that behind and use a word that means the same in both Polish and Czech, we get “Wyrok,” as in, “sentence, verdict”; and if we’re looking for a word that exists simultaneously in Czech and Hawaiian — Czech being the mother tongue of Kundera and the stunning Josef Koudelka — we get “pukowi,” as in, “birch tree”; and if we want a word that simultaneously exists in Hawaiian and Spanish, we use “paniolo,” as in, “cowboy.” With Spanish being the language of rapid-fire Chilean, of one Colombian student telling me that a lot of call centers are located in their country because it has the most “neutral” Spanish, of a photographer living in Guatemala telling me that he couldn’t really answer my questions about languages, given that there were 21 different Mayan languages in the country — we are now looking for a word that simultaneously exists in both Spanish and Tagalog, as Tagalog is a common second language of the Philippines, which gives us phrases like bungang-tulog (fruit of sleep) to describe dreams, daga sa dibdib (mouse in the chest) to describe worry, and others — and we get “realidad” and “reina”/”reyna.”
If we want to see a word that exists in both Tagalog and Hindi, we get veranda/baranada and “guro”/गुरु; and if we wish to say something that means the same thing in both Hindi and Urdu, we can say, Mein kamrey main hoon, as in, “I am in the room.” And if we wish to use a word that exists in both Urdu and Punjabi — and here we can zoom in Danny Boyle-like to micro-profile Misha in London speaking a swarm of languages and selling lots and lots of hedgehogs — “my brother bought all of us siblings a hedgehog for Christmas and we didn’t realize they breed like crazy!” — who peppers her sentences in English with Punjabi and Spanish, i.e., “What is this bakwaas, you kamchor? Go make my comida a toda maquina!” (What is this rubbish/nonsense, you slacker/slouch/good-for-nothing? Go make my food quickly!). Here we could say Abbu in Urdu and Abba in Punjabi (meaning “father”), Ammi and Ammi (meaning “mother”), Taya, Tayee, Chacha, and Chachi (two ways of saying Aunt and Uncle); and if we wish to pick a word that exists in both Punjabi and English, we could pick school/sakul (though “madrasa” is probably more common); and if we wanted to see a word that was the same in English as it is in Swedish, we could use “telefon”; and if we wanted to say a word that is the same in Swedish as it is in Norwegian — well, heck, you could say “Jag kommer från Norge” in Swedish (“I come from Norway”), and all it would translate to once it crossed the border would be “Jeg kommer fra Norge.”
I don’t know which paper to get. I’m in the Out of Town News kiosk and I don’t know what to get. They’re all so expensive. I look at copies of Le Monde and El Pais, The Irish Times, and others, walking in a short semicircle, trying to avoid omnipresent tourists. There are no papers here in Catalan, Gaelic, or Creole. I look at the papers again.
In a follow-up e-mail with Karolina Zawadzka, she wrote that she had “read a great interview with Michal Rusinek — he was a personal assistant of Wislawa Szymborska (you should have heard about her ;).) Rusinek is a polish scholar and writer, and a journalist asked him, in what he sets his hopes and he said LANGUAGE!”
I paid for my paper and left.
— Evan FleischerPhenakistoscope image by Eadweard Muybridge, ca. 1893.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/536f558b8f8373e92bbe1f8b461ae0ed/tumblr_mgqigqwWxJ1rrpm57o1_r1_500.gif)
Language Is a Virus: How Loanwords Move the World’s Tongues
There are an estimated 6,700 to 6,900 languages in the world today, and they drift through the air like a meteorological echo — Hello! Hallo! Allô! — a roll of thunder or a set of bird calls off in the corner of the ear and the eye. And accompanying every tongue are loanwords, or, rather, lehnwerts, the tin-eared telephone line tossed from house to house, the improvised bridge of a tree knocked across a river’s expanse, or, more prosaically, words one “borrows” from one language into another. Loanwords explain how and why English speakers can say things like Frankfurter, pretzel, hinterland, dreck, or kaput without their conversational co-conspirator batting an eye.
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The Reconstructionists: Celebrating Badass Women
What do Buddhist artist Agnes Martin, Hollywood inventor Hedy Lamarr, and French-Cuban author Anaïs Nin have in common? Their names may not conjure popular recognition, and yet, for Lisa Congdon and Maria Popova, these women represent a particular breed of cultural trailblazer: female, under-appreciated, badass. They are “Reconstructionists,” as the writer-illustrator duo call them — and for the next year, they’ll be celebrated on a blog of the same name. Every Monday for 12 months, The Reconstructionists will debut a hand-painted illustration and short essay highlighting a woman from fields such as art, science, and literature. The subject needn’t be famous, but she will, as Popova, the creator of Brain Pickings, puts it, “have changed the way we define ourselves as a culture.” We spoke with Popova, and illustrator Congdon, about the inspiration behind their project.
How’d you come up with the name ‘Reconstructionist’?
Maria Popova: It’s very challenging to celebrate women without pigeonholing the project into some stereotypical and alienating feminist corner, the most dangerous part of which is the preaching-to-the-choir quality that many such projects tend to have. So when it was time to come up with a title for the project, it couldn’t be something too literal or too obvious. After sifting through hundreds of letters, diaries, autobiographies, and other writing, I suddenly remembered something Anaïs Nin had written in a 1944 diary entry — about “woman’s role in the reconstruction of the world.” It was perfect. It was the only common denominator between those women – they aren’t all artists, or all writers, or all to be expected in the pages of a tenth-grade history book. They are simply all reconstructionists.
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