by Ralph Maltese | Feb 26, 2017 | Uncategorized
Apostrophe to Punctuation
I was intrigued by this headline in a well-respected, big city paper. “Parents’ Object to School Board.” What object, I wondered, did parents send to the school board? A petition for less homework? A number 2 pencil symbolizing their frustration with the testing mania? A dead fish wrapped in newspaper a la mob style signal? Reading the article did not provide an explanation of the object. Finally, I realized it was a misuse of apostrophes that caused the confusion on my part. “Object” was not a noun, but a verb. The misused apostrophe was the culprit. There was no object belonging to parents. Figuring that out was five minutes of my life I will not get back.
I don’t get it. I taught for almost four decades, and I understand why my students made punctuation mistakes. That was why they were in school—to learn. But what is the excuse for newspaper editors and television news? Don’t the editors get paid to edit? The apostrophe is only used in English for two situations—-to show possession or to signify a contraction (missing letters). English majors know that “apostrophe” as a word –not as a symbol of punctuation can be a figure of speech in which a poet addresses an absent person or abstract idea, such as Lord Byron’s “Apostrophe to the Ocean.” [see title of this blog] There is a third use, but more on that later. When using a pronoun, an apostrophe is never used for possession: my, your, their, ITS (most often confused). An apostrophe and a pronoun is always a contraction: I’m (I am), You’re (you are), We’re (we are), IT’S (it is).
Here are some examples of the incorrect use of the apostrophe (or lack of) in signs: NO DOG’S ALLOWED, CHILDRENS’ GARDEN, PERFECTION HAS IT’S PRICE, KIDS KIOSK, ST. PAULS SQUARE, PARKING: RESIDENTS AND VISITOR’S ONLY.
One of my linguist professors in grad school predicted the demise of the apostrophe. “In forty years, the apostrophe will disappear from usage. People will simply get the appropriate meaning from context.” He was a terrific teacher, but not so good a prognosticator (or perhaps his prediction needed more time to come true). He would have a big argument from the “The Apostrophe Protection Society.” http://www.apostrophe.org.uk/page8.html It warms my heart to know that there are groups of people dedicated to preserving the correct use of a symbol of punctuation. I discovered websites devoted to exposing apostrophe misusers. On this one http://www.apostrophecatastrophes.com/ the following errors are highlighted: CUBAN CIGAR’S, PRINCESS TIARA’S FOR ONLY $4.50, LETS GO CELTICS.
The misuse of apostrophes seems omnipresent. On a blackboard: DEAR PARENT’S DON’T FORGET THE COOKIES. Inscription on a cake: THERE’S IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME. Sign on a fast food store: DEEP FRIED OREO’S. http://mashable.com/2012/09/24/misuses-punctuation/#c3E1I5I8oGqH
Not that the misuse of an apostrophe is a crime against humanity. Unless the confusion from the misuse alters an order which ends up as a crime against humanity. As a co-editor of my college paper, I was raked over the coals if I let slip a grammatical error. I wonder if the editors of papers and television news suffer embarrassment from a faux pas. “Gee, Harold, why the apostrophe in ‘Parents’ object’?” [Did I put the question mark in the right place in the last sentence? Probably not.]
I referred to a third use of apostrophes aside from showing possession and contraction. An apostrophe appears in names, and this seems to be occurring more often. “Thomas Re’nard,” “Ap’ril Olsen,” “Jona’than James.” Apostrophes in names is nothing new—think French and Italian and Irish and Native American. “Le’clerc,” “De’Angelo,” “O’Malley,” and the famous “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”
Some theorists speculate that using apostrophes in names is a result of not having diacritical marks on the keyboard (like the umlaut—-hello Elizabeth Rohm from Law and Order) In other languages, the apostrophe has other uses. As in:
“Use in transliteration
In transliterated foreign words, an apostrophe may be used to separate letters or syllables that otherwise would likely be interpreted incorrectly. For example:
- in theArabic word mus’haf, a transliteration of مصحف, the syllables are as in mus·haf, not mu·shaf
- in the Japanese nameShin’ichi, the apostrophe shows that the pronunciation is shi·n·i·chi (hiragana しんいち), where the letters n (ん) and i (い) are separate morae, rather than shi·ni·chi (しにち).
- in the ChinesePinyin romanization, when two hanzi are combined to form one word, if the resulting Pinyin representation can be misinterpreted they should be separated by an apostrophe. For example, 先 (xiān) 西安 (xī’ān).
Furthermore, an apostrophe may be used to indicate a glottal stop in transliterations. For example:
- in the Arabic wordQur’an, a common transliteration of (part of) القرآن al-qur’ān, the apostrophe corresponds to the diacritic Maddah over the ‘alif, one of the letters in the Arabic alphabet
Rather than ʿ the apostrophe is sometimes used to indicate a voiced pharyngeal fricative as it sounds and looks like the glottal stop to most English speakers. For example:
Did you follow all those explanations? Really? Fricative that! And we have difficulty remembering the two correct uses of apostrophes in English!
I understand the current trend to de-Anglicize names, and I wish I had thought of it. I could have distinguished my own children by inserting some apostrophes. “Mere’dith” comes to mind. But, as it fortunately turned out, all my children distinguished themselves by their deeds….without my help naming them in distinctive ways. Besides, having to live up to an apostrophe in one’s name might put too much pressure on the kid.
I wonder if the use of apostrophes in names will spread to other forms of punctuation. Consider the exclamation point. Ralph! Maltese sort of grabs one’s attention. Imagine a future populated with George Washing!tons, Abraham Lin!colns, Fred!erick Douglass’(for those government officials who don’t know who the social reformer Frederick Douglass is, it would be worth your while reading his book Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, but I would not spend time trying to find his email address). And why limit our futuristic scenario to just the apostrophe and exclamation point? A common name in the 24th century might be John Smi)th, or Tom Jo*nes, or Ronald Mc;Donald. Punctuation combinations could evolve in names. James Feni%$)more Coo*!per, Alec Bald&^$win, Amy A)($dams, Donald Tr#$@&%*!ump.
This I believe to be true: Language is an organic entity. It evolves depending on its usage. Perhaps my professor was correct in predicting the disappearance of the apostrophe, but that is sad. Punctuation spices up language and clarifies meaning—as long it is used correctly….ay, there’s-theirs the rub.
by Ralph Maltese | Feb 19, 2017 | Uncategorized
“Perchance to Dream”
Hamlet
Polley and I grew up on an interesting cusp of American history. Born in the late 1940’s, we were raised by parents who survived the Great Depression and World War II, and who ingrained in us the work ethic. Polley’s father usually responded to his children’s trivial (and not-so-trivial) complaints with “Stop your bellyaching!” I once told my father I was bored. He found work for me to alleviate my boredom. I never expressed that feeling again. Respect for authority and God and country were not simply taught but silently expected. And then we grew into the sixties, a culture which challenged all conventions, especially blind loyalty. We learned to think critically.
Years later, reading about the time period I grew up in, I gained some insight into the struggles that earlier generation had in making sense of it all. One post-war strategy was to drag out Sigmund Freud to explain how a European civilization, Germany, a nation known for Goethe and Durer, Beethoven and Bach, could also become a dictatorship which history identifies with systematically throwing babies into ovens. Freud’s Id became a favorite culprit. Everyone has the potential for evil if the conditions are right for the “beast” to surface. Imagine you are a teenager who enters the high school cafeteria. Your Id, representing your primordial drive to survive (and thinking in monosyllabic logic) says, “Me hungry. Me want to scoop up mashed potatoes with hands and stuff mouth.” Meanwhile, your Superego, always in conflict with the Id, argues, “I know you are hungry, but if you scarf up those mashed potatoes with your paws, you will never be elected class president.” The Ego tries to balance both the Id and the Superego. I am certain there are more sophisticated and artsy works that illustrate this theme (the movie Pressure Point with Bobby Darin, and the novel, The Lord of the Flies by William Golding, are two), but my favorite is Forbidden Planet, a 1956 film starring Leslie Nielsen, Walter Pidgeon and Anne Francis. Of course, when I first watched this film in the theater when I was ten, I knew nothing about Freud and the Id, especially my Id, and the most interesting character to me was Robbie the Robot. After the movie came out, all of us wanted the Robbie the Robot toy, but my parents were not going to shell out around $8 on a toy. My friend Walter had one and we watched it blink lights and move around the floor and make scratchy techno noises which was about all it did (you can purchase an original Robbie the Robot toy now for around $11,000). Still, he was my favorite movie character.
Robbie aside, Forbidden Planet had a theme. Commander Adams from Earth lands on Altair IV and meets Morbius, a scientist who has uncovered the vast, technologically advanced machinery created by an ancient and now defunct civilization, the Krell. The Krell created devices which transformed one’s thoughts into material actions—the Krell did not have to leave the recliner to throw another log on the fire—they simply had to imagine it, and it was done. Why the Krell disappeared is, at first, a mystery. Morbius has a beautiful daughter who makes the visiting earthmen (who have been in space a few light years) drool. At night, (this stuff always happens at night), a monster visits Adams’ spaceship and rips apart one of the crew. The epiphany, of course, comes at the climax of the movie, when Morbius realizes that the nightly monster is generated by his own Id. Fearful that the visiting earthmen will take his precious daughter away, Morbius’ dreams become reality and the beast attacks the supposed threat. Robbie the Robot cannot fight the beast because he has been programmed to not harm his creator, Morbius, and, well, the beast arises from Morbius’ id. The Krell, like all human life forms, absorbed in petty feuds with their neighbors, could control their conscious behavior, but they could not control their dreams—-or their Ids which materialized and wreaked havoc on each other to the point of obliterating their civilization. Theme 1: we can control our conscious behavior, but we cannot control our dreams. Theme 2: The Id is the driving force that helps us survive, but, unchecked, the Id has the potential for incredible harm. One of the scary lessons arising from the holocaust was the realization that all humans have the potential to behave badly.
This concerns me because, like many other Parkinson’s people, I experience nightmares that are vivid and scary and violent. Polley and I call them Parkinson’s dreams, dreams in which my Id surfaces in the form of nasty animals and aberrant humans.
In one dream I am in a cottage in a lovely rustic setting when I hear a commotion at the back door. I open it and, standing on its hind legs, baring its fangs, is a monstrous tiger who swipes at me with its huge paw. I furiously struggle to fend it off. In another Parkinson’s dream I hear a scratching at the cellar door. I open the door to investigate, and I am facing an oversized gray/black wolf, mouth open and teeth dripping with drool as it tries to engulf my head. I punch and flail in defense. In another dream I push and shove a brown/gray grizzly away from my tent flap. In the latest Parkinson’s dream my nemesis is a group of enormous-headed boys who bear a striking resemblance to some of the elementary school blockhead bullies I faced in the Bronx. I strike out with my fists. I am a big fan of most animals, so that is why my Parkinson’s dreams are not chock full of attacks by bared teeth chipmunks or overbite squirrels.
Not only are these particular nightmares extremely vivid, but they make me physically lash out in defense while I am sleeping. The ultimate victim of all this fending off and punching and flailing and pushing and shoving and striking in my defense is Polley who bears the brunt of my defensive counter punches. If this keeps up, she will have to wear a suit of armor to bed…..or pack heat in the form of a stun gun. And these Parkinson’s dreams know where to hit me where it hurts the most—my insecurities, failed relationships, fracturing disappointments, my weaknesses as son, brother, husband and father, all surface with the Id. These Parkinson’s dreams draw from the deepest recesses of my fears. I won’t share these.
“Most of us are temporarily paralyzed in the dreaming phase of sleep, so we don’t act out our dreams. However, people with RBD [Rapid Eye Movement Behavior Disorder] do act them out.
Studies estimate anywhere between 15 and 85 per cent of Parkinson’s patients also suffer from the condition.
Prashanth Reddy, consultant in movement disorders at King’s College Hospital in London, explains: ‘A normal sleep cycle lasts between 90 minutes and two hours.
At the end of each cycle, you enter a phase of sleep where you dream, which lasts between 15 minutes and one hour.
In most people in that state, muscle tone is lost and there’s a biological switch that disconnects the brain from the body so we don’t act out our dreams.
But in people with RBD, the switch malfunctions, and they tend to act out their dreams.”
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2782719/Parkinson-s-The-bad-dreams-warning-sign.html
And you know what, for me, is the scariest thing about all this? As I imagine is also true for other neurological disorders, the worse aspect of Parkinson’s is that I have lost trust in my brain. All human brains deceive us some of the time. We see water on the hot surface of a summer highway when no water is there because our brain tries to make sense of something it does not recognize. For years I thought my brain and I had a good relationship. Of course we argued about decisions, oscillating between what was best for me in the long run and what I wanted to do at the moment. Aside from trivial tiffs, I thought we were on the same page. That has changed. I cannot trust my gray matter to NOT conjure up threatening dreams when I am most vulnerable—when I am asleep.
Each night I go to bed wondering if the beast will surface….and knowing there will be no Robbie the Robot to keep me safe from myself…or keep Polley safe.
Sleep tight….and don’t let the beasties bite.
by Ralph Maltese | Feb 12, 2017 | Uncategorized
“I Slept Like Firewood”
Rene Auberjonois in the Bob Newhart Show
In memory of Sheldon
and For Ronak
Perhaps it was the fond memories of camping with my dad in the Adirondacks feeding logs into a fire in front of our lean-to. Or perhaps it was one memory, my good friend Sheldon and I gazing into the flames licking the walls of his fireplace, and the two of us simply enjoying the primeval warmth and security a wood fire brings to friends. In any case, several years after we purchased our home, we decided to add a fireplace to the abode. We hired a well-recommended fireplace builder, Mr. Angotini, who showed up one cold late autumn day along with his three sons to begin construction.
“Is it bad to lay bricks in the cold?”
“Cold does not bother us. Can’t lay bricks in the rain though.”
And so Polley, I, and our four year old Christie watched Mr. Angotini and sons lay brick after brick. At their lunch break, Christie turned on the television, chose PBS, and squatted in front of the tv with her peanut butter and jelly sandwich to watch Oscar and his devious exploits on Sesame Street. Mr. Angotini and sons munched on ham sandwiches and watched as well. It was only until forty minutes had passed that we all realized Christie had disappeared to her bedroom to play with her dolls and that we six adults were still engrossed in the reformation of Cowboy X and Grover.
Two days later, our fireplace, built from recycled bricks that once were the faces of buildings in Philadelphia, was finished. Now the firewood frenzy commenced. For a fireplace to work, firewood needs to be procured. As an economically strapped teacher with four children, I found myself becoming an opportunist, wishing, literally, for windfalls, cruising the neighborhood for downed branches. March is a great month. After weeks of collecting, sorting, and stacking, I became an expert at firewood selection: kindling, little sticks, big sticks, logs. Another credit to my college education.
Eventually I had to face the fact that scavenging for neighborhood blowdowns was not going to provide me with sufficient fuel to warm us during the winter months. Years ago I watched a reality show focusing on nine families pretending to be 19th century pioneers in the Oregon backwoods. Each family spent considerable time chopping wood in preparation for the cold northwest winters. Experts at the end of the show evaluated each family’s wood supply. They agreed that the “team” who had cut down and stacked four cords of wood would not make it through November. Four cords is a lot of hard fibrous material!!
So I bit the bullet, saved up, and researched the suppliers of fireplace fuel. The first I chose was a father and son business from central Pennsylvania who unloaded the cord of wood and dumped it on my front lawn. My neighbors suspected I intended to initiate a bonfire which might engulf their homes, so I unearthed my children’s little red wagon from the mound of toys in the garage, and after a hundred or so trips from the front yard to the back yard, I had a nicely stacked cord of wood in the outer limits of my property. “Nicely stacked” does not mean the same as “solidly stacked,” and one March day, during one of those windfalls I once so eagerly awaited, the stacked cord of wood became, once again, a piled cord of wood. At least it was good exercise.
After several winters I needed to order another cord of wood. I found a supplier online that charged only fifteen dollars to stack the wood it delivered. We arranged a day for delivery so I could show them where I wanted the stack. I came home from work one day to find a cord of wood piled in my driveway with a note: “Was able to deliver early—subtracting stack fee.”
Out came the little red wagon.
That cord lasted a few more winters until I ordered again from the same supplier. I came home from work one day to find the cord stacked against my house—an optimum location for termites, and a note: “Did not know where to stack, so stacked here. Thanks for your purchase.”
I was very happy not to have discarded the little red wagon.
Keeping the fireplace fed is not the only skill a fire builder needs to develop. There is the actual construction of the fire that needs to be mastered. The very first subskill—–and this is an extremely important one—-is to NOT trust your memory. No matter that your brain is absolutely convinced that you had opened the damper for the flue—check to make certain that the flue is open. On several occasions, ignoring this subskill, our family room and kitchen resembled the last moments of the Poseidon Adventure, replete with clanging smoke alarms and smoke stung eyes.
While camping, my father challenged me to make different kinds of fires using his terminology: tripod fires, Indian pole fires, log cabin fires. The greatest challenge involved making a fire when it rained and the forest was soaked. I hunted the woods for white birch bark to use as a starter. Sometimes it is also challenging to build a fire in the fireplace. Forget those movies, especially those from the forties and fifties, in which Rock Hudson, while seducing Doris Day, applies a small paper match to a log and has instant flaming logs. I tried that and it does not work. A fire has to be constructed just so, newspaper, kindling, sticks, logs. A fire also has to be watched. We have experienced some interesting moments when a log has crashed through the fireplace screen, spewing sparks.
Since our fireplace has become an integral part of our winter home, I notice hearths in movies. There is a scene in Citizen Kane, shot in Orson Welles’ stylized depth of field, when Kane stands next to his fireplace while addressing his wife who is working on a jigsaw puzzle apparently fifty yards away in the same room! The fireplace is so large that Kane could walk into it and still have yards of headroom, and the “logs” stacked in the hearth represent the culling of an entire forest. The mantle could be used as a cobblestone NASCAR raceway. I would have to spend my entire waking days scouring the state in order to provide the fuel to feed that monster.
Still, it is my favorite cinematic fireplace. And despite the extra tasks involving in maintaining an indoor fire, (including those damp spring days when the collected ashes become mildewed and eye stinging), I enjoy the huddling around the hearth. There are those moments, logs ablazing, when I believe I share a common joy with Neanderthal Man (besides sharing an IQ), basking in the warmth and security of a fire, a primeval feeling of well-being. Sometimes the simplest and oldest of traditions bring us the greatest comfort. Throw another log on the fire.
by Ralph Maltese | Feb 5, 2017 | Uncategorized
Breakfast With Andre
I was invited, along with other spouses, to Polley’s bimonthly breakfast with elementary school colleagues, people who specialized in helping other people’s children succeed in the learning process.
As one grows older, the friendships and relationships one maintains in his twenties, college chums and new co-workers, are added to by the society one’s children enters. In fact, the children’s culture pretty much dictates whom we share a pizza with on Friday nights and what bleacher buddies we develop on Saturday afternoons. We see and interact with the same parents at Honor Society meetings, band practice, soccer games, Scout meetings, etc. What we all had in common was an enlightened vision of the future for our kids. Or so I thought.
Andre is not one person, but a composite of gentlemen I have had the honor of breaking bread with…ham omelet here, soccer tournament hot dog there, soggy hamburger at a basketball tournament there. Numerous conversations during time outs, between games/performances, waiting at pre-recitals all while scarfing down fast food lunches and dinners. Active parents know what I am talking about—-you put two thousand miles on the family van in a week, and you haven’t left town. Most of the sharers of on-the-run repasts all shared Andre’s perspective; the only true difference is in their individual expressions of the same idea.
Andre: So how have you been? Long time, no see.
Me: Last time we saw each other our kids were at high school graduation. Wow! That went fast. Kids okay?
Andre: Married and out of the coop. Olivia is working for the Scandanavian Whaling Museum in New York. Yours?
Like all men, we engage in Can You Top This!, our retelling of our children’s success stories in the same way as kids we would choose sides in baseball by alternating the hand over hand grips on Louisville sluggers to see who would be on top and have first pick. Satisfied that we are both World Series Winners, we move on.
Me: Still working?
Andre: Me? No. I gave up the construction business two years ago. You?
Me: Retired from teaching, then worked for the state department of education for a few years. Got a view of education in the state from another level.
Andre: How was it?
Me: The view? Not always pretty. Watched a lot of educators working hard and efficiently, but when it comes to what is best educationally for the kids and what is best politically for the policy makers, guess which wins out?
Andre: Such is politics. By the way—have you noticed our local taxes are going up?
I sensed a tone which I had heard before.
Me: Uh huh. Of course, compared with neighboring school districts, our school taxes are low.
Andre: Yeah, but I don’t have any kids in school any more.
I took a forkful of omelet.
Me: Yeah, I know what you mean. A lot of my federal taxes went to support the armed forces, and I haven’t called in an air strike on my neighbors. So what am I paying those taxes for?
Andre stared at me. Andre: Are you serious? At least that money goes for our country, you know…..our defense….the common good?
I put the forkful in my mouth. Me: Oh, I thought education was also the common good. I have a poster on my wall—a quote from Mark Twain—“Out of the public school grows the greatness of a nation.”
Andre cut a slice of ham. Andre: I’m just saying….I know you were a teacher, but teacher salaries are out of control, you gotta admit.
Me: No, I don’t “gotta admit.” Be specific.
Andre: C’mon. A second grade teacher making 100 grand? I don’t get it.
Me: That’s after 25 years working in the trenches.
Andre: Doesn’t matter. I mean, second grade?
I put down my fork. Me: So, how about a CEO of a company that makes whoopy cushions?
Andre: Whoopie cushions? Okay, if he is CEO, he deserves 100 grand.
Me: So it doesn’t matter how important a contribution is to society? As long as he/she has a title 100 grand it is. But if you help raise other people’s children, that is not worth 100 grand?
Andre: Being a CEO requires a lot of decisions. I know. I ran my business. And I did not have the summers off. [that was a dagger thrust]
Me: Neither did I. I usually got a second job in the summer or worked every day in July and August on my next year’s learning units. I worked by contract 186 days per year. Subtract weekends and vacations and holidays, how many days did you work?
Andre: Okay, I get the point.
Me: So which is it?
Andre: Which is what?
Me: Am I a salaried professional or an hourly worker?
Andre: Let’s say an hourly worker.
Me: Okay. Then I charge extra for marking papers, grading tests, writing college recommendations…..
Andre: That is part of your professional duties.
Me: Then I am a salaried professional.
Andre: Okay. You are a salaried professional.
Me: So why don’t I get paid like other professionals—engineers, doctors, lawyers?
Andre shrugged his shoulders.
Me: You know why? Two reasons: 1) we think any job involving care-giving is not product producing so we don’t think helping people is worthy of paying a good salary, no matter how important the job, and 2) most care givers are females. We don’t like to pay for “woman’s work” no matter how much it helps our society. Think teachers, nurses, social workers.
Andre was becoming slightly flushed. Andre: Can we be honest?
Me: Business honest or real world honest? [that was a shot fired across the bow.]
Andre: Honest honest.
Me: Sure.
Andre: Basically you work with kids all day and go in and just tell them stuff.
I pushed back from the table slightly. Me: Honest?
Andre: Sure.
Me: You haven’t got a clue as to what teaching is about. We get kids, often kids that are reluctant to engage in the learning process, and we help them develop life-long learning skills. And in public schools we accept everybody—-the last bastion of true democracy. So your kids are in good spots right now?
Andre: Yes. Very good.
Me: Did their education in the public schools have anything to do with it? The school taxes you paid, and are paying, including the 100 grand for a second grade teacher, were they, are they, worth it to have your kids where they are?
Andre looked down at his half-eaten plate of ham and eggs. The waitress came over. “More coffee?” We both nodded.
Andre: Are you running for school board?
Me: No. There is an opening on the Administration Board of Parsippany Hospital.
Andre: No offense, but how can you serve on a hospital board when you are not a doctor—or even involved in medicine?
Me: How can I serve on a school board if I know nothing about education?
Andre: That is different. All of us went to school.
I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt. Me: So what? See that scar? I had a bypass. Being operated on does not make me a surgeon. A student in school has tunnel vision, and basically worries about oneself. It does not mean that every graduate of school is an expert on learning.
I saw that Polley and her friends were getting up to leave.
Andre: Still….a hundred grand for a second grade teacher.
I stood up. Me: As opposed to a businessman who makes products we don’t need? I like the bumper sticker—“If you think education is expensive, try ignorance.” Enjoy your children.
