New Word: decanting

6 06 2010

Here’s a new word that came to my attention recently.

decant – pronounced, I think, as dee-cant, with equal stress on each of the two syllables, and related to the word decanter (where the stress is on the medial syllable),  being a vessel for holding liquid, and the thing from which one decants. Well, the decant that I was told about is a metaphorical take on the old wine decanting. It came about through an office memo in a government department advising staff about the forthcoming move to another building, and providing a protocol of tasks to be completed and by when. Thus, one line read “meet the transition team – the people who will be helping you with decanting, change management and other issues relating to your move”. At this stage I’m of the view that the word is rather euphemistic – moving is one big headache for most people who do it, not least the removalists. It all seems much more polished and do-able when it’s a matter of decanting.  I predict we’ll be seeing a lot more of this kind of decanting.






Westchester Widow

20 05 2010

Unpacking Personals: Westchester Widow

This advert appeared in the Personals  of The New York Review of Books, October 8-9, 2009, Vol LVI, No 15.

Westchester widow seeks friendship with man, 75-85, who loves Mozart, especially the Marriage of Figaro. Contact etc.

Google tells me that “Westchester County is a suburban county located in the U.S. state of New York. Westchester covers an area of 450 square miles and has a diverse population…” There’s another such place in Pennsylvania, but it’d be less likely, all things considered. Being an outsider, I’m not sure what socio-economic cue “Westchester widow” would give off for an insider, but I’d guess (it’s only a guess) something like “of comfortable, independent means”. It feels rather formulaic – like she’s giving out her gender (female), her marital status (widow) and socio-economic class. And if she’s travelling down to the Met for her regular opera fix, she’s likely to have a healthy bank balance. Note she’s seeking “friendship”, a loose term if ever there was, especially so since the advent of electronic social networking, though I doubt our widow is using it in the Facebook sense. “Friend” can suggest with or without benefits.  All things considered, it probably means companionship –  “a person to attend opera with”. Given that the few words of a Personals ad are all the space she has to present herself and her quest, what does her love of Mozart say about her? Because we surely have to infer that she herself feels the love of Mozart that she wishes her quarry to have. Does she perhaps identify with Mozart’s Countess, sadly recalling a philandering husband,  urging all to be festive and merry, while an accompanying solo oboe almost weeps as she sings? What might all this, the passions as well as the tensions, convey to her would-be companion?  Note too how few stipulations she has: all he has to be is elderly and love Mozart, especially Figaro. What if he loves Mozart, but not particularly Figaro? Would he have a chance? What would a love of Figaro actually mean, in terms of human characteristics? What if he had such characteristics, but still didn’t love Figaro? Is a love of Mozart able to be faked? My issue with this ad, apart from the above ambivalences is: surely an elderly widow of refined musical taste would in reality harbour more must-haves and must-not-haves than what she’s stated? What if he has all the requirements… plus nose hair? Unlikely, I’m informed by one-who-knows, who says a love of Mozart and the presence of nose hair are mutually incompatible.  What if he has all requisites, but  also a police record (say, for axe-murdering)? The essential question, then, becomes: At what point of personal unpleasantness does the love of Mozart etc cease to forgive all else?





When is an apology an apology?

17 05 2010

Language is slippery. Slopes, ditches, gullies and puddles – all traps where meanings can slither away, never to reappear in the same form. Down there, in that dark, dank environment, apologies – together with denials, evasions, retreats and whitewashings – all rub shoulders, compare notes and plan early retirements.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the domain of public apology, which is so often reduced to farce or fracas. There was the case of Catholic Bishop Richard Williamson  and his so-called apology. First he made some outlandish public statements involving Holocaust denial. Then, following the outrage expressed at his comments, the bishop issued further public statements – containing “regret” about “imprudent remarks”, and about about causing “unnecessary distress”.

Let’s look at the choice of words. First off, “imprudent”. Is this the best he can come up with? That his comments were careless? Lacking prudence? Needing care?   Is this what it’s called when you falsify history, draw demonstrably from a cache of untruths, which you then harness to an anti-Semitic agenda?

With “unnecessary distress” we have no agency, no responsibility spelled out.  On the contrary, “unnecessary” is a veritable reservoir of ambiguity, allowing Williamson to distance himself from any surrounding unpleasantness. The lurking implication is that they who take offence really shouldn’t get so hot under the collar; it’s their reaction that causes these kerfuffles; and if they just took it differently, we could all dispense with the  “unnecessary distress”. In other words, blame the victim for the fuss.

Without doubt, the underlings who draft these texts are skilled at their craft. Political correctness requires a statement, but we’ve reached the point where no one expects that the statement do anything other than fill the slot in the public conversation where a statement is needed.

We’ve forgotten that for an apology to count as an apology, a number of prevailing conditions are required. Ideally, five elements are needed:  the apology should name the behavior that’s happened; accept responsibility for it; offer an excuse or account (but not a justification) for how it came about; ask forgiveness; offer to make amends.

“Sorry for how I spoke to you in front of the boss yesterday (naming behaviour). I was totally out of line (accepting responsibility). It had been a very hard day (explaining) but it shouldn’t have happened (not justifying). Please accept my apology (asking forgiveness) and if there’s anything I can do to make up for it, please say so” (offering to make amends).

We could score an apology out of 5, by asking:

  • Is the behavior being apologized for named?
  • Is responsibility accepted?
  • Is the account more than a justification?
  • Is forgiveness sought?
  • Are amends offered?

Let’s revisit the bishop and his “regret” for  “imprudent remarks”  causing “unnecessary distress”.

  1. The behavior is diminished to the point of “imprudent remarks”, for which “regret” his mentioned. Regret does not of itself constitute an apology.
  2. No responsibility is accepted, other than admitting more care might have been taken.The implication is: if the offended were less touchy about these matters, there wouldn’t be a problem.
  3. No account is given.
  4. Regret does not automatically ask for forgiveness.
  5. No amends are mentioned.

So Bishop Williamson gets a big fat zero.

This article appeared in Spectrum, The Sydney Morning Herald, around the time of PM Kevin Rudd’s apology to the Aboriginal people of Australia.





Politeness Can Be Toxic

19 04 2010

There’s a linguist in the USA, Charlotte Linde by name, who’s done some very interesting work on cockpit conversations. You know, in planes, between pilot and co-pilot. Not just any such conversations – her specialty is cockpit conversations just prior to a crash.

In other words: What’s going on in the talk at the point of the nose-dive? Recovered from the black box, and analyzed post-crash, these dialogues have a great deal to reveal. No doubt this is why such extraordinary efforts are invested in preserving talk that might otherwise be highly ephemeral. Like most talk, here today, gone tomorrow.

In a nutshell, they show that politeness is incompatible with emergency. This is because politeness is wordy and wordiness gets in the way of clarity. And when the going gets tough, clarity is what you want.  It’s the same reason, theatre surgeons don’t say things like, “I wonder, nurse, if you’d mind checking the range of scalpels you have at your side there in that tray, and passing me one, when you’re ready.” Likewise, in the army, especially in combat scenarios, commands are given briefly, minimally and unambiguously. You’d never hear: “Corporal, go over that way, see how many enemy soldiers you can kill, look out for snipers, and take care of yourself. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

However, it’s not only in life-and-death contexts that politeness can be clumsy. Take the following conversation I had at a Sydney theatre box office, a far cry from a plane crash or a surgical procedure or a combat zone. Well, under usual circumstances, anyway.

It’s a real-time, face-to-face conversation. What we call “transactional”, rather than “interpersonal”. I’m not trying to get to know the chap working there. I’m just trying to get some information, and maybe then, if all goes well,  acting on the information. In other words, this is about goods-and-services, not relationships.

I’ve come in to the theatre to ask a question about my subscription. I want to know if I can transfer some of my tickets to someone else.  The conversation is not without its own challenges, however. In order to be heard, I have to lean in quite some way; and the glass screen separating us is tinted, so the visuals are also compromised.

This is what ensues. The box office man starts off, replying to my inquiry.

I think you can’t do that.

I can’t?

Mmm, I think you can’t.

You think, but you don’t know?

Well, I do know, that’s what I’m saying, I think you can’t do that.

You’re not sure, though, are you?

Well, I am sure, actually.

So you know that I can’t do it?

That’s right. You can’t.

So why did you say you “think”  I can’t?

Because that’s what I think is the case.

But it’s not just your opinion. You seem to know that this actually is the case.

Yes, that’s right.

So, there’s a policy about this and you know what it is.

Yes that’s right.

So, if someone comes up to you, in the box office, to ask about this policy, and you’re there and you know the answer, why would you compromise your assertion by saying “I think”?

Um, because I’m giving my opinion on the policy.

But the policy is a matter of fact, not opinion. It’s fixed and un-negotiable, surely.

Yes, that’s right.

So what is wanted in such a situation, is the policy, not your take on the policy.

Yes.

Where you have a knowledge of the facts and that’s all you have to transmit.

I think that’s what I did, isn’t it?

No, you didn’t, you phrased the information in such a way as to create doubt.

Did I do that?

Yes, you did.

I think I didn’t.

There, you’ve done it again. You know that you didn’t, but you persist in using “think”.

I’m just being polite.

Ah “polite”. Yes. But have you thought about what you might lose as a consequence of your politeness?

No, I don’t think I have.

Written out like this, it seems interminable; and I can’t say I came away confident that I had a convert to the cause of clear communication.

Linguistic politeness has multiple roles and they’re mostly valid and purposeful. In essence, it comes down to showing respect and/or avoiding abrasion between people engaged in the complex work of verbal interaction.

It’s possible to keep it clean and clear, without sacrificing quality or causing offence. Though sometimes, as with my conversation with the box office man, polite and clear seem destined to collide.

PS Since writing this blog, I’ve been alerted to the fact that Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers had a chapter on this very topic.

PPS Since writing the above PS, I have read the Gladwell book and highly recommend the chapter on fatal cockpit talk.





The

15 04 2010

I’m not sure of the provenance of this cartoon. An online student of mine at The New School in New York City posted it on the Discussion Board during a unit on discourse and context. It can mean almost anything, I suppose, though I tend to think she meant it to mean that the character in the foreground,  waiting at a table without a talking partner, has no obligation to spell out his thoughts or the context in which they’re embedded.  His “The” was enough.