The Grammar Police

It’s a lot of fun to catch spelling errors on menus and signs. Here’s a sign I smiled at when I passed it this summer:

Having spent most of my career as an editor, I pretty much can't help noticing errors. I for sure want the T-shirt I saw last summer that read “I am silently correcting your grammar.” So, yeah, I'm the grammar police.

But a lot of people, not just editors like moi, are language nerds. My husband, for example (a mere engineer), has a real thing about redundancy. He rolls his eyes when he hears someone on the radio say “past history,” "favorable approval,” or “merge together.” And he has little tolerance for the benighted soul who might descend into the Swamp of Redundancy and utter “future weather forecast” or “pre-order.”

I myself savor malapropisms—saying the wrong word because it sort of sounds like the word you really meant. In Shakespeare’s As You Like It, the watchman Dogberry has a ton of them, such as these:

“Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two auspicious persons . . .” (a two-fer)

              and

“O villain! Thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.”

Some audience members feel compelled to make sure their neighbors catch such errors. More than once I’ve been in the audience when someone hears a malapropism such as those of Dogberry,  elbows his companion, and, with a little snorty laugh, says in a stage whisper “Redemption!” [snort snort.] I guess you could say these people are grammar police who aren't satisfied with catching a criminal—they want others to participate in some sort of grammar citizen arrest.

But spoken malapropisms like those in plays are chump change compared to malapropisms in writing. I mean, anyone can say the wrong thing—we all misspeak at times. But putting a malapropism in writing is rich fodder for any of us whose language police antennae are twirling.

I culled these malapropisms from memos and reports written by physicians during the days when I worked for a medical society:

• There is a true medical malpractice crisis brooding.
• We appreciated your inciteful comments.
• This question predisposes that you ask the medical staff.
• The patient presented with an exasperated condition.
• The survey results are skewered.
• This article has several examples of duplicitous referencing.
• We hope establishing these sections will spurn increased interest and activity.
• Maybe my predecessor will consider incorporation.
• The basic tenant of an ambulance system is speed of transport.
• The speaker preceded to explain legislative issues to the group.
• We should develop a monogram on stress in emergency medicine. 
• This patient was a compulsory drinker.
• Thank you for your consideration and patients.
• It's important to have authority for everything within your germane.
• The greenery and beautiful flowers created the elusion of an oasis.
• HMOs are in the mist of a long process of evolution.
• The moderator may include one personal antidote about the legislator.
• Doctors are scrabbling for patients.
• Does that comment invoke any further questions?

But while there are those of us who might be rolling our eyes at the radio, or silently correcting the grammar of those about us, what is the right thing to do when we ourselves are speaking and the correct grammar or the correct pronunciation might be off-putting to the listener? And what do we say about the fact that "correct" grammar and spelling are a moving target, so that "data is" used to be wrong, but now it's not. Except when it is.

More topics for future Nairam Chronicles. 

Trying out the bus in Dallas: 1986

Dallas launched the Dallas Area Rapid Transit when I lived in a Dallas suburb during the 1980s. Before DART, Dallas had a bus system downtown (so I’d heard), but the suburbs had nothing. The idea of taking a bus was foreign to many, reprehensible to some, and frightening to the rest. Come to think of it—just like now, whether you are in Dallas or DC.

I’m a big believer in public transportation, and I voted for the increased taxes to start DART rolling. I vowed I would take a bus to work if ever there were one.

And lo, it came to pass. DART created a bus route from the suburb where I lived to the suburb where I worked. Great!

But even I, a veteran bus taker, felt uncertain, even scared, about doing it. Why was taking the bus in Dallas so hard? I had taken buses in many cities. I had had no sweaty palms in Detroit, in Toronto, in Boston. No trepidation. No planning for three weeks. But figuring out how to take the bus to work seemed overwhelming.

I finally figured out why it seemed so hard: There was no one to ask about it. In Detroit, you approach a bus stop and say to one of the people standing there, “When is the next express bus?” or “Is this where you catch the bus to Jefferson Avenue?” Not so in Dallas. No one was standing at the bus stops I drove past on my way to work. No one.

I decided I would just have to try it.

So I waited at the bus stop closest to my house and boarded a bus that took me to the North Irving Transit Center, where I got off to wait for my second bus. Despite its important-sounding name, the North Irving Transit Center was just a curb where numerous buses converged. It had no building. It had no bus shelter. It had no benches. I’m sure that by now, 30 years later, they have benches. OK, I’m not sure, but one would hope.

All in all, my first DART experience ever was successful: I didn’t have to wait long for my second bus, which dropped me off a half block from my office. 

Other positive things: The drivers were courteous. The buses were really nice—brand new, in fact. No graffiti, no litter, no torn seats. The seats were plush velveteen. There were no drunks exposing themselves. In fact, it wasn’t like Detroit at all.

Of course, I had to compare the bus transit time (45 minutes, door to door) to driving time. When I drove to work, I stepped from my kitchen into my garage, drove to work, and parked in the office parking lot right outside my building. Total time, door to door: 18-20 minutes.

I know what some of you are saying. You’re saying, “What?! Of course you should have driven to work. Driving to work was a no-brainer!”  

Not so fast, Corvette-breath. For me, public transportation had (has) lots of advantages. For one, I hate driving in traffic, and every day I faced more cars and more construction. A lot like driving now, actually.

On the bus, I could read a book, do the crossword puzzle, maybe catch a nap. I knew I would live longer with a little down time twice a day.

And there was another compelling argument for taking the bus. I typically worked late, frantically trying to meet deadlines or somehow get a head start on the next day. Not a healthy lifestyle. The bus schedule forced me to leave work at 5:30, to catch the 5:40 bus. Until 5:40, the buses ran every 20 minutes. After that, the once-an-hour schedule started. So, if I didn’t catch the 5:40 bus, I didn’t get home until nearly 7:30. (Ask me how I found that out!)

Perhaps most important, by taking the bus I was doing my part to save the earth—reducing pollution and highway construction and the relentless northward expansion of Dallas suburbs to the Oklahoma border.

I continued to take the bus to work, and, in fact found another advantage: Buses tend to have the same riders on the same schedule, and a small community of bus riders is thus established. At each stop, one knows who will get on and who will get off. It’s very comforting.

The Crazy Guy on the Bus

I had a racial confrontation on the bus one time, with a psychotic guy. The bus was crowded that morning, and many people were standing in the aisle. I heard a resonant, authoritative voice, not the driver, at the front. “Move to the back, folks. Move on back.”

I always like it when a passenger takes control of a situation, offers some leadership.

The people standing in the aisle did not move—they never do—and a half dozen more jammed into the aisle at the front.

Once the bus started moving, the resonant, authoritative voice started singing. Ah, I realized now, it’s a crazy person. Leadership, schizophrenia. It’s easy to get them mixed up.

As usual, the bus emptied quite a bit at U Street, and no one had to stand after that. I saw the singer/crazy guy take a seat near the front. Quite handsome, with a beard trimmed short. Maybe 40 years old. African American. He occasional burst out with a tune or talked loudly to everyone in general. Everyone ignored him.

Then he moved back to a seat across the aisle from me. I was reading a magazine. He sat on the edge of the seat, facing me, with his feet in the aisle.

He looked at me. “Let me ask you something,” he said. I looked up at him but didn’t say anything.

“Let me ask you something,” he repeated. “How would you feel about this?”

I still held my magazine open, but I didn’t look back at it. I gave him my attention. He didn’t seem dangerous, but then, I didn’t know how to behave with a schizophrenic. I didn’t want to encourage him in this conversation, but I thought I should show him courtesy. 

I began noticing the people around us. They were all women, watching him and me.

The man continued. “How would you feel if, today, now, in nineteen-ninety, in nineteen, in nineteen-ninety and something, whatever it is, how would you feel if I said to you, ‘You go sit in the back of the bus?’”

At that point I felt I definitely should not ignore him. Should not turn back to my magazine. Although his demeanor was not aggressive, we had a hostile situation here. I didn’t think to check for a weapon. This was nineteen-ninety, nineteen, nineteen-ninety and something, and back then only post offices had people who came in with a weapon and went, well, postal. So, weapon didn't occur to me.

His tone of voice, in fact, was that of a preacher who intones a rhetorical question, such as, “If the Lord came today, would you be ready to meet him?” 

I kept eye contact with the man. He continued his questioning. “I’m asking you how you would feel right now, if I said to you, ‘Go back there. Go to the back of the bus.’?”

The women around us were watching us. On the basis of no evidence whatever, I felt they sympathized with me. I thought they identified with me as a woman, and as a sane person confronted by a crazy person. Even though they were black, they didn’t see me as a white person confronted by a black person. They were curious, though. They wondered what I would do.

Thus, in just a few seconds after he confronted me I had mentally constructed an entire social and psychological environment that was on my side. I now realize this probably makes me as crazy as he was, but it felt right at the time.

I was trapped. I knew I shouldn’t respond, but with no response from me he just kept going.

“How would you feel if I said to you, “You gotta go to the back of the bus’?”

I did consider answering him. Maybe he would feel reassured if I showed a willingness to be open, to discuss the issue rationally. Plus, I wanted him to know I wasn’t snooty. I wanted him to realize that he had chosen to challenge perhaps the most liberal white ever to ride bus 52.  Quite possibly the most liberal person in the universe. Did I say “rationally” a couple sentences ago? OK, so maybe liberal, but like I said, not really thinking too clearly.

I rejected the option of talking to him, knowing at a gut level that engaging him in conversation was a no-win venture.

I thought again about turning  back to my magazine, but I thought that might enrage him. And, weapon or no weapon, I was scared, all the nice on-my-side ladies notwithstanding.

With no response from me, he continued to harangue me, repeating the question in different ways. I just kept keeping eye contact and listening to him. Maybe he didn’t really expect a response, but I felt increasing pressure to do something. Like I said, I was trapped.

I felt the eyes of the other women. Why didn’t they intervene? Weren’t they on my side? Were they enjoying this, actually?

Ultimately, the driver came to my rescue. He called out to the man to come to the front. The man rose immediately and ambled good-naturedly to the seat near the driver, where they had a conversation that I believe had something to do with whether the man had paid his fare or not.

Ambled good-naturedly! Jiminy Crickets! My magazine was practically soaked through with the sweat from my hands.

That 52 bus. Ya gotta love it.

The Bus Driver and the New Girl

When I first came to DC I took the 52 bus to work. Most of the riders on the 52 bus were Latinos or African Americans, and I felt like an interloper. It was their bus, and I didn't belong. I was white, new to DC, and new to the bus. I tried to be invisible, just blend in, but I had red hair, so . . . .

What the bus driver said to me changed everything.

The driver on the 8:35 bus, my bus, was an African American with a salt and pepper beard. Well, all bus drivers in DC are African American, of course, but I thought I should put that in there for those of you readers who don’t live here.

I’d been taking the bus for a few months, then one week I drove to work because my boss had given me her parking pass to use while she was out. (Without the parking pass, $15/day; hence, the bus.)

But after a week of parking in the underground lot at work, I was back waiting for bus 52 at 14th and Irving, like always. It was the driver with the salt and pepper beard. When I climbed the steps and shoved my dollar in the slot, it happened. He said, “We missed you lately!” I was stunned. He recognized me? He knew I hadn’t been there?

As I worked my way back to find a seat, I heard his words again and again: “We missed you lately.” He knew me! The morning sang.

Maybe they all knew me—hard to be invisible, after all, being one of the only white riders, and with red hair, to boot. Maybe they thought this was my bus, too. The 52 bus. My bus.