Speak Gibberish; You're in America Now
FANS, I'll be the first in line to defend people who speak another language besides English. Oh sure, I got a little testy when I spent over an hour on the phone with "Mary", a Dell tech-support person who tried her best to convince me that she was in the American heartland when clearly she was in Chennai, and who tried to make conversation with me while she ran a diagnostic on my modem from the other side of the world by asking me how old I was. But then I reminded myself that it was OK for her not to speak my native tongue so well, as Mary's native tongue was likely Hindi. And that if I wanted to keep my job in publishing, I should probably sign up for a course in it.
What sort of bothers me are those folks who get upset when they overhear another language being spoken in a context in which they have no business in the first place. My old college roommate Marta Gomez was born in America and considers English her native tongue. But that doesn't stop her from slipping in and out of Ricky Ricardo-like rants in Spanish when she gets excited or is with her very Spanish-speaking family. But I don't feel threatened by it. Half of the time I don't listen to her in English; why should another language bother me?
Like I was saying. Too many people are threatened by multi-linguals these days. On a recent train trip home from Virginia, an extremely Nordic and gorgeous couple sat across the aisle from my colleague Quint and I. For some reason, Quint had chosen to sit in Amtrak's Quiet Car, where anything above a whisper is strictly prohibited. Ignoring this requirement, Quint, the Vice President, proceeded to engage me in the most ridiculous conversation; wondering aloud why farting had yet to be recognized as an Olympic event. The Nordic couple read silently, flashing an "Ugly American" look at me every now and then.
"Shhh….Quint, these people next to us are going to get upset," I warned, wondering what actually happened to people who got too loud in the Quiet Car. (I heard they dump you out at Philadelphia.)
"It's OK, Karen," Quint said with a smile. "They don't speak English."
I paused. "Right. But are they deaf, too?"
At least Quint's statement was correct - I don't think they spoke much English, as they had considerable difficulty understanding the conductor; in fact, they may still be on that train. But what also steams my clams are people who confuse a thick foreign accent with actually not speaking English at all. It's likely that Hector speaks English way better than you speak Spanish. And his grammar is probably a lot better. Give him one of your "Yo soy oona gasolinera"s and see how ridiculous you feel.
Rage is a powerful emotion; save it for something better than that. Save it for the moron at Macy's gift wrap who tells you that not only do you have to pay extra for bridal wrapping paper, but you only get a choice of two patterns. And that you cannot choose one of their other selections, because you've already told her that it is a wedding gift she's wrapping. In perfect English, mind you.
Then there's the woman who was unreasonably annoyed that the ladies in the seat in front of her on the train to Hoboken were speaking Russian. She nudged her friend on the arm, pointing to the seat in front of her and rolling her eyes. I couldn't tell if this was a misguided love of country or frustration from a love of eavesdropping. It just seemed like a waste of effort to me. Now if she had been speaking Russian on a cell phone, that's different. Then there's every reason to be upset. Not because of the Russian, but rather the cell phone. Because on the train the only sounds I want to hear are my own whimpers as I think about Elliot Stabler kicking down my door as his pants suddenly fall off. But perhaps I've said too much.
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What was I saying? Oh yes. The point I'm trying to make here is that it's misguided to be upset that someone is speaking another language in America, unless that person is speaking it badly. Take for example, what has become known in my office as THE BUTTER MANIFESTO (Fig. 1).
The Butter Manifesto appeared one morning on the refrigerator at work. Figure 1 is the actual document, but some quick background is in order. Apparently one of my colleagues forgot that our fridge gets cleaned out each Friday night, which is more than fine with me. The aromas that generate from my coworkers' lunches are most unholy; leave the forgotten morsels to ripen over the weekend sans air conditioning and come Monday the smell is like 1,000 Rhesus monkeys crapped on the floor and then laid down in the mess to die.
Fans, remember that I work in the production department of a publishing house. It's traditionally a place where the misfits land, all of us secretly wanting to do something else besides working in the production department of a publishing house. There are musicians, writers, stand-up comics, etc., all looking for a paycheck and a way to kid themselves into thinking they're doing something remotely creative. But the one thing that brings us all together is an unnatural obsession with grammar.
Something happened on the Great Butter Day. People gathered around the refrigerator, some of whom hadn't seen each other in months.
"Betty! You still work here? I thought you retired last month. Have you seen this?"
"Gene! I'm sorry I sabotaged your promotion. Did you write this?"
"Herman! I thought you were dead. Have you seen the Butter Manifesto?"
People who hated each other laughed and guffawed together in a spirit of mutual ridicule. Co-workers who had long ago stopped speaking over petty gripes tossed their differences aside and united in their efforts to find out the author of the Butter Manifesto.
Two days of sheer butter bliss followed. The sign was soon replaced by one funster who Photoshopped a MISSING poster, complete with picture and description of the I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Another capricious young lad fashioned a milk carton with the butter's picture on the side. Hilarious.
What was my point here? Admittedly, I've forgotten. I really did start out with the best of intentions here. I guess I'll just let the Butter Manifesto speak for itself.
Until next time,
Karen Accavallo, authority.
E-mail me your outrage here.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Karen is obviously under a lot of stress.
