hella smoke

Photo credit: Paul Chinn, The Chronicle

Yesterday's news story about a South Korean airplane crashing upon landing at San Francisco Airport was tragic, and confirmed all my worst fears about flying. It will take the remaining two months I have until Spain to garner enough courage to get on a flight. What's more, my best friend is about to take off from SFO to China and later South Korea, the two locations the flight originated from. 

I just landed at SFO five days ago, returning from a trip to New York. The man seated next to me made fun of me for crossing my fingers on take-off and landing, but you can never be too sure.

The contents of the news story were of course upsetting, but I couldn't help smiling at this one bit of linguistic relief, nestled into a quote from an airline mechanic:  

"It landed straight, then went to the side and then all you saw was hella smoke coming off it," he said. 

You know the story takes place in Northern California when the term "hella" finds its way into formal journalism.  Everyone reading this from Southern California will cringe at both the contents of the news article, and the use of such a widely loathed term. 

assorted accomodations

If only.

A love of travel comes with the question of where to stay. Ideally, I would have friends all over the world who would open their houses for a few nights, which has happened on some occasions and always proves for the best trips. Or I would be able to afford the above penthouse. The following is my slightly more realistic account of where I've stayed during some past adventures:

a language map of the U.S.

A statistics student from North Carolina State came out with this fun linguistics study to see how where you live shapes your language. Give it a try! My results showed that not only am I indeed from California, but I was linguistically shaped by my very county! (The rest of California says "drinking fountain," but just north of San Francisco we prefer "water fountain." A truly profound distinction.)

Were your results representative of where you are from? I really enjoyed the study, until I reached the last question and learned that California is missing out on drive-through liquor stores. Ignorance was bliss, and now I am contemplating a move to Virginia.

(P.S. His next study should focus on rates of drunk driving in correlation with "brew thrus.")

graduation

This weekend I graduated from UC Santa Barbara, officially becoming a Gaucho Alum.

It was a jam-packed weekend full of dinners, graduation parties, pictures, ceremonies, and final nights with friends.

My roommate Maddy and our sisters

The women of the family

Out to dinner at Blue Agave

The Fam

Graduation picnic with families and friends

I'll miss these guys

Most academic departments on campus held small receptions for their graduates. My housemate Deniz, who studied Computer Engineering, said hers was catered with gourmet mini quiches, French-inspired hors d'oeuvres, and artisan pastries. My Linguistics reception had some chips and dip, and a store-bought cake with erroneous icing: "Congratulations LINGUSTICS Graduates." (The department that studies language can't even get English right.) UCSB seems to play favorites when doling out party budgets. Regardless, it was a touching little send-off.

It's been a great four years, and I'll miss everyone so much. Now I'm returning home to sleep for three days straight, and eventually worry if fourteen pairs of jeans is overkill as I transplant my life to Spain.

Isla Vista, I'll miss how wonderfully weird you are

feminist linguistics in Deutschland

I just finished my last German final, and now I can begin the swift process of forgetting a year's worth of material. But even if verb order and plural endings don't stick with me, a recent linguistics study about German articles made quite the impact. At the University of Leipzig, academics are taking feminism to the next level by attempting to change the grammar of German. In English we have no distinction between the gender of nouns--a table is a table, and that is that. Most Romance languages, like Spanish and French, have two genders: masculine and feminine. But German has three--masculine (der), feminine (die), and neuter (das)-and so there has been a big debate since the 1980s over the political-correctness of such forms. In many written documents both the masculine and feminine forms are included, but given the unbelievable length of some German words already (like the mouthful "Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung" for the simple concept of a speed limit), this can make for a cumbersome read! When addressing a group in general, it has been common practice to use the male form. However, many linguists have shown that this can indirectly shape a person's thought--remember this blog entry?

Think of it this way: In German,
                   male president = der Bundespräsident
                female president = die Bundespräsidentin

But when the question is asked in general (thus employing the masculine form), "Who will be the next Bundespräsident?" an image has already formed in most listeners' minds of a male president, since that's what the grammar suggests. Little fräuleins' dreams everywhere of holding high office are dashed.

Some linguists in Germany hope to someday replace the masculine and feminine forms with the simple neuter, representing both. How avant garde of them! Germans are at the cutting edge of automobile and sausage trends--why not grammar, too?

If you're interested, read the full (fascinating) article here.



What do you think about these changes? Should a language be forcibly shaped by progressives and scholars? Or is it best to leave well enough alone, and have any language change be only the result of a naturally occurring process?

I've come full-circle

Here is a picture of me when I was little. Yes, I'm the one on the right.

Photo Credit: Maddi Wachs

These are the visible details: I had glasses, liked to eat (messily), and was raised by parents who didn't know how to dress or accessorize a girl.

What is not pictured was my odd obsession for office supplies and fake education. For one of my youngish birthdays, my friend Laura (middle)--with the obvious help of her mom--bought me a box filled with every kind of office supply imaginable: sticky notes, whiteboard and pens, clips, notebooks, binders, mini staplers and tape dispensers. . . . It was Office Depot, compacted. After witnessing such euphoria upon opening this present, my parents must have been more than a touch concerned for how I'd turn out.

With these newfound supplies, I opened my own schoolhouse in my bedroom. I created the persona of Ms. Basil, teacher and dictator by profession (and lover of herbs...?). I subjected my sister and mother to spelling and math, and found it necessary to criticize my 3-years-elder sister on her addition. It was not uncommon in this one-bedroom schoolhouse for the lessons to end in tears, as I found it utterly disrespectful that my mom and sister should talk amongst themselves instead of listen to my explanation on the correct spelling of "though." I'm sure these classes were the rare exception when my dad was glad to have a grueling commute and workday--anything to avoid the wrath of Ms. Basil.

But those early years proved formative. I opened my inbox today and found out my placement as a teacher's assistant in Spain: Zorroza Secondary School, Bilbao. How ironic that Ms. Basil will be making a comeback, though this time hopefully without the use of corporal punishment that my mom and sister fell victim to.

the person I'm becoming

Have I hit rock bottom?

I'm officially EXCITED to do research for a paper I'm writing, on the grammar of the subjunctive mood in English. Gulp.

I can see it now . . . . I start off as a relatively normal girl, surrounded by friends. Together we enjoy watching shows like The Mindy Project and making fun of pretentious academics. Then I glance at a blog here or there, start getting interested in writing and language. Think maybe I'll postpone the real world for a year by teaching English. Realizing I need to actually learn details of English, I sign up for a grammar class. Earn a few university credits, stop by the library to do some research.

My show preferences begin to change....less New Girl and Grey's Anatomy, more 60 Minutes and PBS. I stay in on a Friday night, opting to do some light reading "for a class." Find myself absorbed in the nuances of verbs. I don't mind the extra pounds the library book adds to my backpack--they just feel right.

College passes. I buy a cat, or two or three. I obsessively seek out immigrants just so I can hear their take on learning English. A tall and attractive man asks me out (despite the spinster I've become), but I turn him down because his response to my greeting is "I'm good" instead of "I'm well." At least I have the cats.

And suddenly I'm the universally hated grammarian, trying to teach all the rowdy students the correct placement of commas. I find solace only in my worn copies of British novels, a steaming mug of chamomile, and my gently purring felines.