Is a Hashtag a Word? The Case of #BlackLivesMatter.
Well, I didn't manage to get an emoticon of the year vote added to the American Dialect Society's annual awards ceremony for the word nerd set (there’s always next year!), but we did end up with a new category that's almost as interesting: Most Notable Hashtag.
The hashtag that won—and subsequently took the overall Word of the Year (WotY) prize as well—was #BlackLivesMatter, which exploded in the latter half of 2014 as a protest against the deaths of young African-American men at the hands of police. Here's a graph of search interest from Google Trends:
In the wake of the ADS vote, some have expressed skepticism about the legitimacy of a hashtag category in the first place and about the selection of #blacklivesmatter for WotY. After all, you might say, #blacklivesmatter—not to mention the other members of the category, including #icantbreathe, #notallmen, #yesallwomen, and #whyistayed—ought to be competing for Three-Word-Phrase of the Year, if such a category existed. But what exactly is a word, anyway?
Not Feeling It
In the wake of Jonathan Chait’s attack on political correctness for New York, there were those who felt passionately that Chait’s approach was blinkered, and those who felt, equally passionately, that he had diagnosed a rot in the grain of left-wing discourse. Jessica Valenti responded with a defense of PC in the Guardian, and her husband, Andrew Golis, tweeted the link.
Feel some feels. Along with all the feels and right in the feels, the phrase is everywhere, especially online. I could have picked any number of tweets or posts to back into a discussion of feels, but there’s something right, I think, about siphoning from the molten geyser of emotion unleashed by the Web’s controversy du jour, a polemic animated, in fact, by the belief that our sensitivities—our feels—are clouding reason, strangling dialogue.
The Art of Literary Expletive Avoidance
This post originally appeared on Strong Language, a sweary blog about swearing.
Show, don’t tell goes the writer’s refrain. It can apply to cursing, too, but doesn’t tend to in contemporary prose. Swearwords pepper modern novels, not least in genres like detective fiction where they lend color and authenticity to hard-boiled dialogue. But there are times when a writer can say more by not saying them.
Take Deirdre Madden’s novel Molly Fox’s Birthday. (Or better yet, read it.) Madden has a gift for imaginative description but knows when to apply the subtler force of discretion. Here the narrator, a playwright, is chatting by phone to her friend Molly Fox, a stage actor with what we have learned is a remarkable voice, “clear and sweet” and at times “infused with a slight ache, a breaking quality that makes it uniquely beautiful.”
The Baest Bae to Ever Bae: Bae Isn’t Just a Noun Anymore
Over the past couple of years, the term bae has achieved widespread usage. While the noun form has been around for more than 10 years, adjectival and verbal uses, along with other related forms, have more recently started popping up to describe the people and things we love, or at least like-like. Twitter, in particular, is rife with interesting new uses of the term. The popular social media platform has been used to mine language change for years and has inspired some recent linguistic scholarly research.
Dictionary.com defines the noun bae as: "Slang. an affectionate term used to address or refer to one’s girlfriend, boyfriend, etc." Many have debated the etymology of bae, some insisting that it derives from the acronym "Before Anyone Else." The earliest evidence of this connection on Twitter is from a July 19, 2011, tweet, making "Before Anyone Else" a backronym of bae, which first surfaced in rap music and on Urban Dictionary in the early- to mid-2000s. A much more likely etymological explanation is that bae is a shortening of baby or babe.
When bae appears as a noun, its meaning is relatively set: It’s a term of endearment. However possibilities abound as bae moves into to other parts of speech. These days bae has gotten a lot of mileage out of its robust use as an adjective.
The Thing About Ping
One paradox of the smart-tech age is that our devices are, when you think about them, kind of scary, and yet they make cute noises. They beep and chime and gurgle and hiccup, as if guided by some focus group’s conclusion that nothing makes us smile quite like a toy piano whose tummy is rumbling. This means, for one, that certain adorable sounds have accrued an aura of dread, like dolls in a horror movie. (Chime! It’s your boss. Beep! Time for your colonoscopy!) It also gets at something true about human interaction in general: Because contact can be so scary, we often find ways to wrap it in self-deprecation, courtesy, and cuteness. We’ve been doing it forever (“Why don’t I just give you a buzz and we can chat about your performance review?”), but the word ping encapsulates the dynamic particularly well.
Ping—ubiquitous but modest, a friendly verb with a stressful, insistent undertone—echoes with contradictions. It belongs to business jargon, but it’s playfully onomatopoetic, which implies a kind of babbling pleasure in noise for its own sake. The word makes you think of ping-pong and (perhaps) Mulan’s male disguise in the Disney movie. But it also has serious applications: It cropped up in discussions of the cell tower records on Serial and in coverage of 2014’s missing planes, with their lost black boxes. And of course it’s serious: Its origins lie in war.
A Bunch of Stupid Buffalo Reveal the Versatility of Swearwords
This post originally appeared on Strong Language, a sweary blog about swearing.
The above expression is a coherent, grammatical sentence.
If you like having fun with English, you will sooner or later meet several versions of a long sentence made entirely of the word buffalo that show four facts of English:
- We can often convert words from one class to another—noun to verb or vice versa, for example—without changing them, as in converting the noun buffalo to the verb buffalo (linguists call this zero derivation);
- We can use nouns as modifiers in place of adjectives without changing them, as in using the place name Buffalo to mean ‘from Buffalo’;
- Some nouns don’t change form in the plural, either (buffalo being one);
- We can omit relativizers such as that, as in “buffalo buffalo buffalo” in place of “buffalo that buffalo buffalo.”
“What Do Cows Drink?” Trick Questions That Show How Your Brain Organizes Language.
What do cows drink?
Your first intuition was probably to answer "milk." And then, depending on how familiar you are with bovine diets, you realized that, wait, it's the calves that drink milk—adult cows drink water. What’s going on that makes it so hard to respond correctly? And what does it tell us about how our brains store and process language?
Great Moments in Swearing: The “GD Big Car” Edition
I recently viewed for the first time Martin Scorsese’s 2013 The Wolf of Wall Street, a rather Shakespearean tale of Jordan Belfort’s excess in money, sex, drugs, and swears, inter alia. The film, you may recall, grabbed a lot of headlines for its record-breaking number of fucks in a nondocumentary film. (The all-time title goes to Steve Anderson’s 2005 documentary, Fuck.)
I suppose it’s hard to argue against such gratuitousness in a story all about it, but I did have to resist the urge to keep a tally during my viewing. Quantity aside, there were some truly memorable swears in the film. My personal favorite? “The book, motherfucker, from the book” (about 0:45 into the clip). That’s good shit. Ironically, during a fuck-filled argument with his wife later in the film, Belfort pleads: “Let’s use our words.” In so many ways, this sums up one of the story’s central theme: Rags to riches is the great sales pitch. (I’m still rooting for you, though, Mr. Bookman.)
That said, I found myself thirsty for a tonic when the credits rolled. Immediately, I jumped to Robert Creeley‘s iconic “I Know a Man.” It’s a staple of anthologies, but it remains fresh 61 years after initial publication and stands as an incredible example of using words, particularly swear words. Creeley’s poetry is sparing without being sparse, emotive without being emotional, spontaneous without being uncontrolled. Not uncontrolled, to be litotic—that’s how I’d characterize the form, content, and, yes, swears in “I Know a Man”:
As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,–John, I
sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what
can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,
drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.
The poem is often described as a drunken poem written in the vein of the beats, with whom and whose poetry Creeley was well familiar. It’s erratic and hesitant, and these qualities play out in Creeley’s syntax and enjambment, as so much of the great work of his poetry did. It stammers and hiccups like a drunk, drunk in spite of and due to the “darkness” (5). In my opinion, no poetry gropes with and through language as exquisitely as Creeley’s does. He is so deliberate in his diction: Not only is that darkness palpable, but, as an abstract noun, it is also almost conspicuous in a poem written in such an otherwise ordinary register.
Ordinary: That’s precisely what I love about the swear words in the third and final tercets of the poem. The speaker’s “goddamn” (9) and “for / christ’s sake” (11) are spoken as if drunk but not too fucked up. Too fucked up yet, because we have always got to pull ourselves together even in the face of the void else we’ll wreck. The syntax of his noun phrase “goddamn big car,” compared with a more natural-sounding “big, goddamn car,” has the sound of a drunken epiphany, as if the speaker is saying, “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s get a big car.” This makes “big car” grammatically and conceptually immediate, a getaway car fleeing from yet also speeding into the darkness. Perhaps his “goddamn” is cursing postwar commercialism and escapism—or, conversely, the freedom—symbolized by the car. At the same, the “goddamn” is offhand, asking us not to take it too seriously. Like his words, the speaker’s meanings are conflicted and unstable and happen fast. Yet the spondaic phrase “goddamn big car” does slow us down just for a moment, with the end-stopped comma serving as an additional pump on the brake, else the speaker gets too reckless existentially and the poet, formally and linguistically.
Along with the percussive K‘s of “christ’s sake,” the swears are perfectly intoned when you listen to Creeley read the poem. His swears may be mild, but, goddamn, are they choice.
Creeley’s poetry is not one generally given to swearing, making “I Know a Man” proof that there is truly an art to it.
Why We Should Declare an Emoticon of the Year
You've heard about the Words of the Year—Oxford's vape, Merriam-Webster's culture, and Dictionary.com's exposure, to name a few. And perhaps you're even eagerly awaiting the American Dialect Society's own WotY vote, which will take place this coming weekend (I'll be livetweeting from it!). But in 2014 we didn't just communicate with words—we also typed, texted, and tweeted to each other using another set of meaningful (though not pronounceable) symbols. So here's why we should declare an Emoticon of the Year, every year.
How Stuart Scott Made Booyah His Own
The obituaries for ESPN sportscaster Stuart Scott have inevitably focused on one word as an emblem of his exuberantly slangy style: Booyah!
Scott peppered his SportsCenter highlight rundowns with many signature catchphrases, from the admiring "cool as the other side of the pillow" to the preacherly "Can I get a witness from the congregation?" But within a few years of debuting on ESPN in 1993, "Booyah!" had become Scott’s calling card, his joyful punctuation mark for a particularly dramatic slam-dunk, homer, or touchdown.