Knee Deep In Adjectives

By

Leo de Natale

Illustration by Vince Giovannucci

          My name is Charles “Charlie” Woodson.  I am a soon-to-be retired high school English teacher.  My school is located in an affluent, tony  suburb west of Boston.  I’m actually looking forward to my retirement because I’m burnt out and my career as an educator is running on empty.  I am nearing 60.  I’ve lost most of my hair and developed a slight paunch.  My students considered me antediluvian because I continue to wear a shirt and tie, Harris tweed blazers (yes with the elbow patches) and spit-shined shoes.  For years I wore a professorial beard but ditched it in favor of the clean-shaven look.  I don’t miss the facial hair.

The students, too, were different.  The school had a dress code.  No blue jeans, no mini-skirts.  Girls had to wear skirts or slacks. 

          Now the kids dress like slobs and sluts.  The boys wear baggy jeans, many of them don’t wear belts.  The pants drop to almost below the buttocks and reveal Tommy Hilfiger or Calvin Klein boxer shorts.  The girls wear tight jeans or denim mini-skirts  that hover just below the pubic line.  Their blouses squeeze their bosoms and, naturally, expose lots of cleavage.  The politically correct school administration is wont to impose dress codes. Exhibitionism is rampant in the hallways. Both males and females are transfixed by their cell phones and wander the hallways unaware of the carnal display surrounding them.  Drug and alcohol abuse has exponentially increased.  There are many problems facing these children.  I worry for the new generations who’ll be attending school long after I’m gone.

           I have witnessed a dumbing down of students and, from talking with colleagues, such robotic behavior transcends schools from elite to blue collar communities.  It is no more evident than in my discipline, the English language.

          There was a time not long ago when speaking and writing English was something to be revered.  I admittedly was a martinet when it came to teaching.  I emphasized the importance of the holy trinity: grammar, spelling and vocabulary.  Thirty-five years ago, it was fairly easy to drill my students with basic erudition.  My students learned the fundamentals of sentence structure. Many got the message and became facile with writing and speaking.  Many were good students.  They were compliant. I developed the reputation of a tough but fair teacher.  I would praise good work but eviscerate students who were lazy or showed indifference to the Mother Tongue.

I continually stressed the importance of knowing how to speak and write proper English. Many college-track students from this public school fared exceptionally well. Each class would produce a bevy of students who were accepted to Ivy League schools and such smaller elite schools as Bowdoin, Amherst, Williams and Wesleyan. I was happy for those kids, especially their when they scored well in the SAT’s language tests.

          An aside: occasionally, a handful of them would drop by and thank me for the discipline needed to score well.  Receiving complements ipso facto is the most treasured experience a teacher can enjoy.  Yes, I did make a difference.  For example, it’s fulfilling to know you’ve influenced a student’s mind and intellect.  It’s true because I one day returned to my high school and visited Patricia Coree, my 12^th grade English teacher.  When I was a senior, she was pregnant and taught only through Christmas break.  But boy, did I learn so much from her. 

          I remember her reading an article regarding the fate of  English.

          “There are three things that are ruining our language,” she said. “Jargon, euphemisms and gobbledygook.”

          She was so right and during our visit I reminded her of that particular lecture.  She, of course, remembered the author who wrote the article.  I told her how much her class affected me and how much I appreciated her truncated course.   She was flattered and touched by my reaching out and visiting her.  Her response was heartfelt and I presume my visit made her day.  Mine, too.

After about ten years’ teaching, I noticed  discernible changes within the school system.  The aforementioned dress codes changed .  The jeans prohibition was relaxed. The faculty  went casual, too.  No shirt or tie required.  Female teachers weren’t require to wear formal clothing.  Grunge had arrived in suburbia but the students were still performing academically.  It is my strong belief the digital age was the fountainhead of the swift decline in language skills.  Texting created a new lexicon.  Use of the internet became ubiquitous.  I began noticing how many writing assignments were exercises in cut and paste.  Students became less interested in writing meaningful essays.  It was easier to Google a subject and massage the data.  I considered that behavior quasi, if not full blown, plagiarism.

Even conversations were affected. The word “like” has become a verbal crutch. I heard one female student using that word in nearly every sentence uttered. “You know” is another phrase that has spread like a Corona virus. The de- emphasis of using language correctly has become a low or even non-existenent concern. The art of well-spoken, scintillating conversation has been lost.

Here are some examples:  between he and I; Us vs. we; “u” vs. you – that’s definitely a barbarism derived from texting; vulgarity – pushing the envelope has  coarsened our speech and society.  Expletive words such as suck, pissed, balls and bitch are heard daily on sports talk radio.  The curse words  and others such as fuck, dick, asshole and spilled into the accepted lexicon thanks to social media – Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.  We have devolved into a linguistic dystopia.

There are many grammatical and usage errors that drive me crazy.  English is the only Western language that is gender neutral.  The Romance Languages, German and Slavic tongues all have masculine and feminine word designations.  Learning French frustrated me because I often forgot which gender was applied to nouns.  I mention this because out of ignorance and political correctness an egregious error has seeped into English, specifically, subject/pronoun errors.   If a singular word, everyone, is used it is logically supposed to refer to either the his or her pronouns.  One of the most frequent barbarism is the phrase, “Everyone has their own opinion”.  Traditionally, the male pronoun, he, was used.

But you can’t do that today.  In deference to purported gender neutrality, “he” is not used.  Hence “ their or they” have become a default solution. None dare offend the identity politics of gender neutrality, a concept that has adversely affected language. There is a seminal book entitled “The Elements of Style” by William Strunk and edited by the famous man of letters,  E.B.White.  It is a pithy 78-page primer that contains the essence of English usage.  White was a student at Cornell where Professor Strunk taught English.  Strunk compiled elemental rules of grammar and usage.  It is timeless classic that contains all the knowledge to write well.   It is a relevant today as it was when Strunk published the book in 1919.  White carved a Herculean career at the New Yorker magazine and was a superb writer and considered the arbiter of  English usage.

The book addressed the above gender conundrum.  During these past years I compromised with my students and allowed them to use a modification: “Everybody can decide what he or she wants”.  One public school teacher cannot change the world.  It’s Sysiphean.  I constantly hear the bastardization and turn my head.

I’ll now list other grammatical errors that make me want to hit my head against a wall:
          “Between you and I, us vs. we, me vs. him” – between is a preposition and requires an objective pronoun –me, us, them.  Another favorite is the “its vs. it”s”. This common error is the use the possessive pronoun “its” instead of the contraction of “it is” and an example of either ignorance or laziness.  Regarding euphemisms, the most egregious example—I can remember Mrs. Coree mentioning this– concerns death.  People today feel uncomfortable saying “he died” and replaced it with “passed away”.   Most people use the term and it is even included in funeral home death notices.

Below is an example of the drek we teachers face.  The following is an excerpt from a creative writing assignment by a corpulent high school senior who considered herself  a 21^st Century Emily Dickinson.  The following is a portion of her writing:

Flight of the Snow Dragon

By

Destiny O’Rourke

(sic)

Samantha arose from her ice-encrusted bed.  It was 6 am and she had much work to do.  She was tired because of the goddamnd cold that surrounded her.  She was living in Azimuth and she was scared of the pending invasion of the Tropes that were a marauding horde of North Monsters who were retrning for their annual harvesting of us, the Eloi.

“Ho!,” she cryed(sic). “We have much to do and not to much time to protect ourselves.”

“The Eloi were surface dwellers and they knew they were gonna be eaten if they didn’t hide themselves real quick.  Of course the Black Queens of the inner planet might be able to help them, but the BQs had their own way of destroying us.  Its no secret they had other purposes for us but not as bad as the SDs.  It was certain death for them for us.  God it was fuckin getting cold in this goddam freezer.  How can I stand it?”

Young Ms. O’Rourke was considered exceptionally talented among her peers.  I’ve talked to fellow teachers at various conferences.  There’s a consensus among colleagues who are in my age group.  We all agree today’s youth can’t write.  It is seen in elite private and public schools.  It spills over to college and university students.  We educators are the culprits.  Once the rules and regulations are diluted, it’s a slippery slope to where we are today.  We’ve allowed political correctness to permeate all aspects of education. Even penmanship has been abandoned.  Students aren’t taught  cursive writing.  Most students use printing on homework assignments.  Oh, for the days of ink wells, blotters and fountain pens!

I know, someone reading this screed is saying “Just another geezer complaining about change and living in the past”.  This may be partially true but we’re concerned over slouching towards mediocrity. Perhaps it’s the predictable course of decaying societies.  We’ve seen it in the past:  Ancient Greece, the Roman Empire, Spanish Imperialism, the British Empire the Soviet Union and America.  Each has a shelf life, including our effete society.

By Leo de Natale

Last week I felt as if I were reliving the famous scene in the cult classic film, This Is Spinal Tap. In the movie an aging, has-been British rock band was appearing at a third tier venue in Cleveland, Ohio. The band members are in the building’s rundown basement and they’re yelling “Rock ‘n Roll”. There was yelling and screaming from the awaiting crowd. The camera followed them as they attempt to reach the stage. They’re lost and, even with the help of a custodian, they wind up where they started. They never perform and ignominiously leave the wretched building. As for me, I sought alternative treatment for a condition called trigeminal neuralgia that caused eye pain and daily headaches located only on the left side of my head. The condition started two months ago and the medication prescribed by a dowdy South African neurologist was apparently not helping. I decided to try acupuncture as an alternative and contacted a fellow my sister recommended – if only I could find his office.

Trying to locate his building was the Spinal Tap link.         The acupuncturist, Martin Googbeck, called and confirmed the appointment.         “The office is right on Rte 117,” he said.  “From where you’re located, it’s a 30-40 minute commute.  I’m in a strip mall.  You can’t miss it. See you Thursday.”         Hmm.  I have trouble with legitimacy when a profession is located at a strip mall and on a secondary highway.  But, desperate times often require desperate measures.  One has to open-minded under such conditions.  Off I went.         

I’m a punctual person and left 45 minutes prior to the appointment.  Using my car’s GPS whose android name is Samantha  (Why  this woman  always send drivers on the most circuitous route to reach a destination?), I ignored the long way because I was generally familiar with the highway and town.  I arrived 20 minutes early and passed by this weenie building that housed the obligatory hair and nail salon and pizza parlor.  There was no visible address and I drove 1,000 feet beyond that building.  The address numbers were declining and concluded I must turn around to find Mecca.         Returning to the strip mall, I finally noticed a small obscure sign that listed the business.  I couldn’t see any entrance to a professional suite and drove to the building’s rear entrance. 

I parked my car and noticed an open, unmarked door, and like Spinal Tap, entered.  There were a maze of offices with no signage but there was a staircase leading to the second floor.  I alighted the stairs and again wandered through the corridor.  To my amazement, I finally found Martin’s office!  I entered and a woman who turned out to be a masseuse told me I was in the right place and Martin would shortly arrive.  The office was non-descript save for the Chinese artwork hanging from every wall.  The lighting was subdued.  It’s always  that way in New Age and homeopathic offices.        

Martin was a tall, middle-aged man. He had a dark complexion and had a cheery greeting. Balding and with crooked teeth and smile, Martin was wearing a Brooks Brothers shirt sans tie, the de rigueur look for today’s businessmen regardless of the occupation. He was personable and friendly. The night prior to the evaluation I had downloaded a questionnaire that listed medical history and current medications. Martin reviewed these. He pooh-poohed some of the non-prescription medications, especially Vitamin E. “You don’t want to be taking the Vitamin E – it affects your alimentary canal,” he stated. And he questioned the efficacy of the neurologist’s use of the drug I was taking for the pain and headache. The drug’s main use is an anti-epilepsy medicine, but apparently neurologists are using it “off label” for my condition. It affects the body’s sodium levels, a situation that required a weekly blood test. As mentioned, the medically intensive protocol prompted me to seek a potential alternative. After assessing my history and a perfunctory physical exam – pulse and breathing rate – Martin asked me to remove my stockings. I laid on an examination bed covered with sheets and a pyramid-shaped pillow placed under my knees. He pulled four sterile needles from a container and, to my surprise, placed two just below my right pinky finger and two below my small toe.

“I thought you’d be placing the needles around head and eye,” I said curiously. “No, the neural pathways for you particular problems originate lower in the central nervous system,” he replied. “Your condition is controlled from neural connections downstream.” With four little skin pricks, Martin told me to begin deep breathing.  He turned down the lighting and, on cue, soft New Age/Asian music began.  It was going to be an exercise in relaxation of the body and mind. “I’ll be back in about 20 minutes,” he said. “Relax.” For the first few minutes, I did concentrate on deep breathing.  I could feel the needles embedded in my skin.  The music was soothing although I found it a bit hoaky.  I listened and listened and, I’ll be damned, I fell asleep.  I knew because drool was at the edge of my dry mouth – must have been snoring, too, I thought.   Martin awoke me and was smiling.  He said most clients have similar reactions.  He quickly removed the needles. 

Of course there was no discernible difference in my pain level and that was to be expected, he said.  I was waiting for the next discussion which was I needed to return for another treatment.  The evaluation would continue and I would await the eye of the needle. Driving home I wondered if sticking needles into foreign parts of the body would have any remedial effect.  Many Americans have a doubter’s opinion of acupuncture and its allied field, chiropractic.  There’s a certain Voodoo about disciplines where using pharmaceuticals for curing is alien.  It was a beautiful June afternoon and driving home in my cherished convertible made the day seem worthwhile.  Rte. 117 is a pleasant secondary highway.  On both sides of the street there were many farms and garden stands.  The head pain was still with me, but I was content there would be a cure awaiting. I continued to consume the medications, four pills daily.  I certainly wasn’t experiencing the darting eyeball pain.  Indeed, that seemed to be abating. 

The daily headaches were more problematic.  They waxed and waned.  I was supplementing the drugs with enteric coated aspirin that reduced the potential gastric distress that non-steroidal, non-prescription drugs create. When you become old, it is true that a geriatric spends much of his or her time seeing doctors and undergoing a myriad of tests.  Later that week, I was instructed to have a blood test for blood sodium levels.  The neurologist’s drug had the potential for lowering the body’s sodium content.  The drug has to be discontinued if this occurs.  It was off to my primary care physician’s office for the blood test.     The phlebotomist was Indian. His name was Majeeve and was born in Bombay, or as he pronounced “Bomb-aay”.  I’ve noticed many Indians have a serene persona.  Many chuckle with a laugh sounding like “tee-hee-hee”. Majeeve went about his worked he placed a tourniquet around my bicep muscle, found a suitable vein and inserted a hypodermic needle and drew my blood into the usual and customary vial. As he  performed his task, we discussed India.  He was very proud of his country’s history, especially in agriculture. “India is the world’s biggest cotton producer, “ he said.  “And silk, too.  It is so hot and this attracts butterflies.  The more heat, the more silk the butterflies produce.  And then we sell it to China, tee-hee-hee.” He complimented on my multi-colored harlequin shirt and my spit-shined oxford shoes.  His shoes were also shined.  Birds of a feather…….

The blood tests were emailed to me the following day.  The sodium level was within normal limits, but still on the lower end.  I was slightly concerned, but I decided to reduce my anxiety and wait for the neurologist’s telephone call.  Meanwhile, on Martin’s recommendation I was scheduled for a follow up and a return to the needles.          Martin again smiled through the crooked  teeth.  “Let’s give another go,” he said. Out came the needles. 

The Oriental music resumes with its soft, dulcimer tones.  Again, I fell asleep.  The obligatory drool reappeared.  Martin reappeared. “This should do the trick,” he said.  “Call me if there’s no resolution.” I returned home.  Gradually, over the next few weeks, the trigeminal pain subsided.  I presuming the drugs were the remedy but I’ll never be able to tell if the acupuncture was somehow involved.  Such are the mysteries of the healing process.  We never really know.