My English friend Adam and I used to have the most outrageous arguments over terminology—you know, typical Anglo-American clashes over the names of animals, foods and sports.
The debates began shortly after we met. Of course we had to get the big one out of the way first: "football" vs. "soccer." When I or any other American hears football, it's safe to assume that we think of first downs, and end zones, and touchdowns, and passes, and field goals, and running backs and quarterbacks and tight ends and wide receivers. When we hear soccer, we think of dribbling, and passing, and goal kicks, and the offside rule, and handballs, and throw-ins, and midfielders and defenders and goalies and forwards (or strikers or whatever).
Americans sometimes fail to realize that the United States is the only country in the world (except for maybe Armenia) that refers to "soccer" as "soccer." Almost everybody else in the English-speaking world—and the Spanish-speaking world, for that matter—refers to "soccer" as "football." What we know as "football," they know as "gridiron."
I fought Adam valiantly on this point, but was eventually forced to concede. "Football" is the correct term for "soccer." England did invent soccer—heh heh, I mean football—after all. The word soccer is actually abbreviated slang for "association football," which is what soccer—I mean football—was originally named. I lost that first pivotal battle. But there are some English-isms that I refuse to give ground on, which Adam and I have debated and still debate hotly.
By "debate hotly," I essentially mean that we get drunk and rag on each other. Any opportunity we can take to sneakily "correct" one another's diction—even though we both know that there's nothing wrong with the terms we're using, and it's what we were respectively raised with—we seize, with much immature giggling.
Take zucchini, for example.
Did you know that English folk—and, apparently, South Africans and New Zealanders—have a different word for zucchini than we North Americans do? Well, they do. They call it "courgette." From the French, you know. Odd, isn't it? It's hard to step back, think objectively, and realize that there is another name for zucchini than "zucchini." I lived the first 22 years of my life without hearing any other word for zucchini than "zucchini." It never occurred to me that other people in the world would have another name for zucchini than "zucchini." I like the word "zucchini." It seemed to pair very well with the thing itself—a tasteless, crunchy, cigar-shaped vegetable used for bludgeoning younger siblings. And now, suddenly, here was hard evidence that there was, indeed, another word for zucchini than "zucchini." And it wasn't a zucchini-ish word at all. I had to rearrange my worldview to encompass this new idea of contested zucchini primacy.
Of course, I didn't learn this right away. It took a while for me to find out. And in the meantime, things were mighty peculiar. You may well imagine the confusion that occurred when the three of us (Adam, his fiancée Elaine, and I) would meet up at the corner grocery store in Korea.
"Alreet mate?"
"Hey guys! What's up?"
"Oh, not much. Just stopping by to get some courgette."
"Ah! Okay. I'm just here to get some zucchini myself. See you 'round!"
And then we'd bump into each other again in the same corner of the produce section and wonder what we were doing there. It took us about a month or so to realize that we were all talking about the same vegetable. Even then, the revelation strained credulity.
"What do you call it?" they asked me, incredulously. They asked me that question.
"Zucchini, of course! What the heck do you guys call it?" I replied, in similar tones.
"Courgette...?" Elaine said, with a bemused smile on her face.
"What?!"
I found out later (under similar circumstances) that English people have a different name for eggplant, too. They call it aubergine (OH-buh-zheen). Oh, for crying out loud.
And then there was the extreme confusion surrounding tic-tac-toe and "naughts and crosses," as Adam and Elaine called it. Turns out there is none. It's the same game. "Naught" (pronounced almost like "note" in Adam and Elaine's North-of-England accent) is another word for nothing, nada, zilch, zero. Crosses are just X's turned sideways. Hence, naughts and crosses: X's and O's (well, okay, technically O's and X's). I have to admit, naughts and crosses is a better name for the game than tic-tac-toe. Better by far.
But all the game-related conversations that we had up until the point of revelation were mystifying in the extreme. I couldn't figure out what the heck they were talking about. The feeling, I'm sure, was mutual. Jeff, a mutual Canadian friend of ours, often sides with me in these battles. Canada's heart may lie with England, but it can't escape its North American bailiwick. Jeff also refuses to think of zucchini in any other terms than "zucchini." He's also stymied by the oddity of "aubergine." He actually knows the rules for baseball and basketball, thank God.
But sometimes Jeff turns on me. He took Adam and Elaine's side in the "zee" versus "zed" debacle, leaving me outvoted by a three-quarters majority. I'm sorry; I refuse to budge on that one, either.
It's worth adding here that Jeff and I get into the most stupendous debates about the superiority of the metric system to the standard (American) system, too. It's fortunate that Adam and Elaine are Geordies (the slang term for folks from the Tyne River region of Northeastern England, on the coast of the North Sea in Northumbria—the ones who stayed loyal to King George even when Scotland was rebelling and invading). Geordies are commonsense, salt-of-the-earth people. They don't cotton to the high-flown verbal fancies of Southerners. Be it otherwise, Adam and I would probably be arguing about whether trucks are actually lorries, the difference between raincoats and Macintoshes, or, heaven forbid, the similarities between baseball and rounders.
I'm not outnumbered, but I'm outgunned. England's been around a lot longer than the States, and lent the States its language, which renders most of my etymological arguments null and void. I have to push the practicality of the American word in question, which can be a subjectively slippery business. Jeff and I are united in the belief that "zucchini" is a better word than "courgette" because, mainly, it's easier to say. (Same thing with eggplant...I mean, aubergine? Really?)
All facetiousness aside, I truly enjoy Geordie lingo. There are some words and phrases that are not only refreshingly direct, but downright charming, particularly given the cultural attitude they reveal. It also behooves me to mention that hearing these phrases delivered in a Geordie accent, reputed to be the coolest English accent of all time, is a real kick. Peruse these Geordie favorites, if you will:
- me head's battered - what you say when you're confused or unsure about something.
- proper lush - really good
- Bobby Dazzler - really, really good...awesome, in fact
- a good craic - a splendid party, get-together, festival, etc.; sounds like "a good crack"
- Alreet mate? - hello
- Alreet bonny lad? - hello (first meeting)
2 comments:
I guess I haven't yet told you that I'm Canadian. Yup. I've lived in the U.S. since I was 16, and I recently (half-heartedly) attempted to become an American citizen, but was rejected because of a DWI (my one and only) that I got ON MY BIRTHDAY, when I was going through a very bad period in my life.
Having also lived in Louisiana for a long period of time, I've experienced what you might call a linguistic gumbo. And I'm an English teacher, who learned way too much about grammar from an insane and subversive genius linguist.
So - I say what I want, how I want, and I encourage others to do the same. I make up words, and I like people who do that too.
I tell my students that grammar is just a code used to communicate with a certain group of people, and the code changes depending on the group. You wouldn't walk into the 'hood and go "Excuse me sir, but might you direct me to the nearest eaterie?"
Having said all that, I will now vote:
Football instead of soccer - no. We called it soccer in Canada and I'm fine with that. It's a stronger word, and sort of onomatopoeic - like the sound it makes when your foot hits the ball.
Aubergine instead of eggplant - yes, yes, yes. So much more poetic. I could say that word all day. Plus there's nothing egglike about eggplant.
Courgette instead of zucchini - no. Again, more poetic. Plus I'm a card-carrying member of the Save the Zee Words Society.
Yes, I said "zee."
Is that so? I never would've guessed. What interested you in moving down here? That's too bad about your citizenship. But perhaps you wouldn't want to be a citizen right now. Retirement benefits look like they're about to go down the toilet.
Oh-ho, you want to talk about linguistic gumbo? I've lived in California, Tennessee, Ohio, Wyoming AND North Dakota. I think I've heard about every American accent there is, except New Englander and Texan. You're quite right, grammar goes beyond dialect, it's a code. You wouldn't ask a Tennessean for a cup of sugar in the same way you'd ask a Wyomingite.
Who is this insane linguist you speak of?
Ah, I wasn't sure about soccer in Canada. I thought I was safe in generalizing, since I was generalizing at my country's expense. I like "soccer" better myself. Sounds a little more sophisticated, like a gentleman's game.
Aubergine is poetic, indeed, but I appreciate eggplant for its eccentricity. The fact that there's nothing eggy at all about eggplants (except for perhaps their shape) is the number one reason why it ought to continue as such.
YOU said "zee"? It is easier to say, isn't it?
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