Introduction
In my last post I tried really hard to lead my readers away from using “kit” to refer to bike
clothing. My strategy wasn’t to definitively
prove that Americans who use this word are dorks, but rather to introduce an
alternative that was so clearly superior, further debate would be needless.
Well, the debate continues. And if that’s not bad enough, one of my
readers—an American living in New Zealand—got his knickers in a twist over a
couple of gross inaccuracies in my essay, which were particularly jarring due
to my “smug confidence.” (I suppose I should point out that I use the chiefly
British expression “knickers in a twist” not because I’m trying to sound
un-American but because it’s slightly less vulgar, to my ear, than “panties in
a wad.” And please note that I say “un-American”
instead of “Euro” because “Euro” is one of the words that got me in trouble
last time.)
In this post I shall first apologize,
and then go on the offensive because another of my pals persists
in trying to advance a nonsensical “living language” argument that really needs
to die.
An apology
My first error, as pointed out by the
Kiwi correspondent, involved this assertion:
Absolutely everybody who wears a jersey calls it a jersey. This is a very useful word because it differentiates between a basic t-shirt and that funny Lycra thing with the zipper in front and the pockets in back.
I should not have said “absolutely
everybody.” I should have said “everybody
in the United States.” Obviously, in other
countries people would have other words for this garment. In the Ukraine, they’d call it “Джерсі,”
which would phonetically sound like “dzhercee” (the “zh” is my approximation of
the sound the “s” makes in “pleasure” and if you have trouble with it, just
imagine Chekov, from the original “Star Trek,” saying “jersey”). I don’t know what they’d call a bike jersey in
China, and that’s a shame, because that’s my blog’s third biggest audience
(after the US and the Ukraine). Of
course, those who don’t speak English probably don’t spend a lot of time on albertnet.
So why does it matter that I said “absolutely
everybody”? Well, I may have confused
some non-American English speakers. I’ve
been advised that while “Antipodean club cyclists would understand [my] usage
from exposure to American media,” “non-cyclist Australasians might NOT
recognise [my] usage of ‘jersey.’”
Dang it. I was totally unaware of any of this, and
moreover I had to look up “Australasian” (which I’d have guessed means “Australian/Asian
fusion cuisine,” as in “throw a couple ginger-infused shrimp tempuras on the
barbee!”) and “antipodean.” The first
two dictionaries I checked defined “antipodean” as “being as different as
possible” or “on opposite sides of the earth,” which obviously don’t work here.
The third dictionary (the really thick
one) had the definition that fit the context; this meaning was flagged “chiefly
British.”
Now, it’s really tempting to defend
myself here. How come my Kiwi critic
gets to use confusing British terms, wacky spelling (i.e., “recognise”) and
single quotation marks, but I have to be aware of every connotation of “jersey”
among English speakers worldwide? How
come when I read an original (i.e., non-Americanized) version of a Harry Potter
book to my kids, I’m tickled by “jumper” for sweater and “trainers” for
sneakers, but my confusing use of “jersey”
is grounds for criticism? Don’t worry, I’m
not naive about the truth behind this apparent paradox. As everybody knows, Brits are charming, but Americans
like me are merely annoying. I get
that. I also accept that for me to be so
narrow-minded and insular with my America-centric perspective, while posing as
an authority on how best to use the English language, is nothing short of
sickening.
Perhaps even worse, as my New Zealand friend
points out, I “seemed to equate ‘British’ and ‘European’ in a way that would
make many Brits and not-a-few Europeans uncomfortable.” I have nothing to say in my defense. I’ve never bothered to interview Brits or
continental Europeans about how they feel about one another, and though I
believe I accurately represented the way in which many Americans, such as the
ones who use “kit” to mean bike clothing, lump all members of the EU together
when trying to emulate their cycling heroes, I did so without acknowledging, or
perhaps even recognizing, how lame this is.
But before I actually issue the
formal apology, I have to figure out whom exactly I’m apologizing to. The confusion I have caused among my overseas
audience (2.5% of whom hail from the UK) is perhaps offset by the delicious
satisfaction they must have derived from decrying my ignorance. On the whole, was their discomfort greater
than the pleasure they got from issuing scathing, probably profane, judgments about
me and my ilk?
Well, just in case it was, I hereby
apologize to all Europeans and Brits. I’m
sorry I’m a stupid, narrow-minded American, and that my blog is spreading my
corrosive ignorance across the world.
It’s very tempting to apologize to
Americans as well, but that’s a complicated matter. After all, both my geopolitical ignorance and
my smug confidence are core American values.
If I act apologetic about embracing freedom and patriotism, well, maybe
the terrorists win. So let me say
this: I hereby apologize to American
expatriates worldwide, and any other progressive American who thinks we should be
knowledgeable about other cultures, be humble about our beliefs, and use
air-quotes around “beliefs” to indicate how tentative we are in believing in
anything.
I suppose I could go fix my previous
post, to be more inclusive of every meaning of jersey and more discerning about
British vs. Euro, but that would make this
post rather confusing. And really,
repentance isn’t the point; acknowledging my ignorance is. So, knowing my original essay will be read by
more people in the future, I want to make a special apology to any non-American
or expatriate-American English speaker who reads it on his or her
birthday. I truly hope I don’t ruin
anybody’s birthday.
(Note that I cannot bring
myself to apologize separately for being smugly confident. I believe I am incapable of blogging
timidly. Blogging, as far as I’m concerned,
is an intrinsically audacious act.)
Back on the offensive
Okay, enough of that. It’s time to beat back a burning bush some
more. I’m talking about the ongoing
attempt of another correspondent to justify “kit.” His first shot is the rhetorical equivalent
of an air ball: “Living language Exhibit A.” In case you’re reading this essay after
that link has gone stale, it’s to a website called Cool Hunting (headline: “Three Fresh Cycling Kits for Spring”) selling a wide variety of awful
things: ugly brown leather cycling
gloves that look like Isotoners with the fingers cut off; a coffee cup holder
for your handlebars; a hand-painted bike bell; underwear for cycling; a suit described
as “Movement-Minded Suiting” that could make anybody look like a d-bag; and a
whole bunch of particularly ugly Rapha clothing. (I know “ugly Rapha” is redundant, but I
thought “particularly Rapha clothing” might confuse somebody.) In other words, it’s a purveyor of awful,
overpriced, over-precious, totally needless crap for pretentious dickwads with
too much money. That Cool Hunting uses
the term “kit” does not, in my opinion, validate the word whatsoever. I’m astonished anybody would say so. If this website hadn’t been trotted out by a
defender of “kit,” I’d have cited it myself to explain exactly why “kit” is a
term any old-school, non-hipster, self-respecting bicyclist might wish to
avoid.
The person who trotted out the Cool Hunting justification for “kit” was quickly rebuked (by others, not me, I might add). So he replied, “Call it Bay Area slang, if it that'll make it go down easier. An
idiomatic usage in a micro-dialect, if you like. But what you cannot deny is
that there ARE people using the word ‘kit’ to mean a cycling jersey and cycling
shorts. Living language at its best.”
Okay, first of all, I can’t see how
impugning the Bay Area would make anything go down easier. I do like the idea of micro-dialect just
fine, and have embraced it for decades.
(For example, my brothers and I have long used the term “tranja”—pronounced
“tron-ya” and taken from a 1960s “Star Trek” episode—to indicate any flavored
beverage, and my daughter has now adopted the term.) But the mere fact of people in any community using
a word does not justify promotion of that word, and is not necessarily “living
language at its best.”
Consider this: so far, I have never heard any member of my
bike club use the word “bidon,” despite all of us knowing what it means (a
water bottle, in Velominati/cool-hunting/poseur/d-bag parlance). We rightfully avoid “bidon,” despite knowing
what it means, because, evidently, we
just don’t like it. Word choice is a
matter of taste, and those who respect language have far higher standards than “what
others will be able to grasp.”
I think it’s crucial to understand
the difference between evolution and mere change. Evolution implies progress: in nature, to evolve generally means becoming
better suited for survival. But when we
say language “evolves,” we’re not talking about natural selection. Sloppiness is just as likely to transform a language. For example, the word “biweekly” used to mean
something specific. It either meant “every
two weeks” or “twice a week,” but not both.
But because people began using it both ways, dictionaries eventually accepted
the second meaning as legit, and now the word “biweekly” is utterly useless—it is
impossible to tell from context what is meant.
From a usability perspective, this word has been pushed toward
extinction.
Even when changes to a language don’t
dilute meaning, choosing words carefully is worthwhile. Often, when two words are equally precise and
do an equal job of getting a point across, one is still better than the
other. If we say, “Pass me a facial
tissue please,” that sounds stilted and odd, and begs the question, “Why didn’t
you say ‘Kleenex’?” And if my daughter
asked her mother for a “snot rag,” she would be rightly reprimanded.
Clarity is sometimes overrated. To simply grasp a word’s meaning is nothing
special; even a beast can do that. My
daughter did a science experiment with our cat.
It has been well established that our cat knows her name and will
actually respond to a call of “Misha!” (particularly if it is issued from the
kitchen). The other day Alexa and I were
on the sofa, with the cat on Alexa’s lap.
“Hey Mom,” Alexa said, “Call out ‘feces’ in the same voice you’d call
out ‘Misha.’” My wife called out from
the kitchen, “Feeee-ces!” This summoned
the cat just as effectively as “Meeee-sha!” ever did. So we brought the cat back to the sofa and tried
again, but this time with “Eggplant.”
Despite being uttered in the same singsong way, it produced no reaction
from the cat. My wife called “Feeee-ces!”
again, and immediately the cat trotted back in there, tail held high. Following this breakthrough, my daughter
started calling the cat “Feces” all the time.
I put my foot down. “We named her
‘Misha’ because we like that name,” I told her.
“I do not like the word ‘feces.’
You are forbidden to use it in reference to the cat.” Now, is that bad parenting, on the grounds
that the cat does understand the particular meaning of “feces” within our
household’s micro-dialect? I truly hope
nobody thinks so.
I am not a fan of “kit,” but I’m not
interested in continuing to debate its aesthetic merit, nor the question of whether
its (supposed) utility is enough to offset its Velominatic air. But what I’m trying to do here is squash the
idea that the elasticity of language can be trotted out as justification to
blithely adopt any new usage that manages to convey meaning.
You still think all linguistic change
is for the good? Well, think about all
the corporate jargon so many of us are subjected to on a daily basis. If you were to hear the following on a
conference call, you might only find it a slight exaggeration:
At the end of the day, the value proposition needs to by synced up with our bottom line, so if we’re going to step up our game, tee this thing up, and swing for the fences, the reality is that—candidly—we’ve got to get Product’s skin in the game, and really incent those folks to add value up the whole stack, because when you peel back the layers of the onion, you can see that business synergies are table stakes in this business, and shareholder value demands that we either reinvent ourselves with some disruptive technologies or we’re going to be in the position of having to ventilate this workforce. I mean, this is the world we live in. It is what it is.If you’re not gagging right now, you’re on the wrong web page. Maybe you should head over to Cool Hunting.