Finding the Family Tree

A cognate—according to Encarta—means a thing that is related to or has the same parentage as another. It derives from a Latin word which means “born together.” In the linguistic world, therefore, Cognate is a descendent of Cognatus as well as a possible parent or brother to Cognada in Spanish.

Today I went to my last Spanish class of the year, which means I’m once again thinking of words, their roots, and their meanings…

If you are working on la computadora, for example, is it more fun to use the mouse and pulsar or else hacer click en el ratón, “to make a click on the mouse”? If, unhappily, someone has not learned to read, is it better to say that person is illiterate or that he is analfebeto, without the alphabet? And, how is the Spanish embotellamiento, or bottling up, related to or derived from the English “traffic jam” or “bottleneck”?

As an English speaker, I find it relatively easy to use the familiar cognate, the word that looks like someone you’ve already met. If you can find the remote—or at least remember its name—then it’s not too hard to guess that el remoto controls the TV set. Still, who stops to consider that el mando a distancia performs the same function by sending or commanding the TV at a distance?

Words are lovely things, when you stop to think about them. It's rather like listening to children learning how to speak—we get to hear the old things in a new way.

One of my long-held favorites is, in fact, that thing which others curse…being put on hold. No one wants to be held off—but what if, instead, you are asked “to be in hope,” estar en espera?

And, of course, there is always the Spanish word for an engagement or una compromiso matrimonial. My first thought was to match this word with a compromise or lowering of morals, not the proper ideal for a marriage at all. However, a marriage does at times require compromises or mutual concession, so perhaps the word is fitting. Even more appropriately, a marriage is a promise which a man and a woman make con, or with, each other.

(In the tangled family of words, it may be tricky to guess which language borrowed from another, but at least I can figure out my own family easily enough. Cognates, also according to Encarta, include anyone having the same ancestry, anyone related by blood. So, I rest assured that my siblings are among my many cognates.)

Books, Series, and All That

I’m worried about the First Book Syndrome.

At some point, part way through college, I discovered a fascination with similarities and patterns in literature. I’ve noticed a new trend recently—one that is either discouraging or encouraging, depending on your point of view.

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I christened it “The First Book Syndrome.” It could be called even more accurately “The-Unsatisfying-Ending-in-the-First-Book-of-a-Speculative-Fiction-Series Syndrome.”

That unfortunately, is a little too long to be a proper title.

What is this all about? It’s my high literary analysis of modern speculative fiction fads, starting with Harry Potter and ending with The Hunger Games. To be honest, it really did start last spring, when I began reading Harry Potter.

The first couple books happened as the mental relief during my lunch break between the morning class I didn’t particularly enjoy and the afternoon class I rather did enjoy. Apart from all that, though, I considered the first book to be nice, light children’s reading. Nothing particularly great, nothing particularly bad. Not something I’d probably read again. I didn’t get the obsession with the stories.

Part way through the second book, I began to get it, and by the time I read the third book—after school got out—I definitely understood the obsession.

Now, I personally am not obsessed with Harry Potter. The books haven’t got any Old English, for one thing (though they do make do with Latin.) It’s just that the first book didn’t live up to the hype I had heard about the series—it certainly didn’t live up to the intensity and excitement of the other books in the series.

Then, this winter, I started reading another series called Percy Jackson and the Olympians (written by Rick Riordan). The basic gist is that the Greek gods aren’t dead—they’ve just moved to modern America. Olympus is above the Empire State Building. Just try guessing where the entrance to the Underworld is.

Does that sound disturbing? It is.

At the same time, I consider the first book in the series, Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief to be an incredibly inventive story (for the first two-thirds of the story). Disturbing, yes. Corny, yes. Junior Highish, definitely. But an entertaining and amusing distortion of Greek mythology and American culture all the way up to the end. And then it flopped. Let’s just say that ‘Perseus’ Jackson and friends against Medusa works, but Percy bringing back the head of Medusa might not be such a great idea?

Actually, the first three books flopped. The characters run like mad all the way through the story, before they limp away at the end in a “oh, no, look what’s coming—hey, we made the prophecies work!” sort of way.

The last two books, however, kept the endings together better. I rather enjoyed the search for Daedelus in The Battle of the Labyrinth. Oh, and someone gets to tell Hera off—big time.

That’s followed by the Manhattan battle of the underworld in The Last Olympian. While I had to suspend a little disbelief at the denouement, I did enjoyed getting a decent wrap up to the stories—one that didn’t leave me questioning a mind-boggling let-down in suspense. (Again, much of the humor and interpersonal relationships tend to be on Junior High-type topics, so don’t bother with the series if that happens to get on your nerves.)

By the time I read Divergent (by Veronica Roth) last month, I was beginning to notice the pattern. Young girl, coming of age, doesn’t really fit in, wants to find her proper place in life. Not a particularly thrilling premise until the “proper place” turns out to include getting half-killed during her training.

And, of course, you have to include the romantic complications, along with minor problems about plots, wars, and the end of the world. (The warning above applies here also, though more so. The book includes quite a bit of violence and messy romantics. There is also an extremely awkward relationship that includes no mention of marriage.)

The pace keeps ratcheting up until the bombshells start falling at the end (semi-figuratively). Then the biggest bomb of all lands. Actually, a couple bombs fall, and they’re duds.

I do understand the need to keep the story going after the first book ends—after all it’s only the first book in a series. Insurgent, the sequel, is due out in May, so probably I’ll have to hunt up a copy sometime and figure out just what was keeping the story alive.

Still, it feels awkward to watch everything blow up, but then try to scurry around and figure out what happens next because not everything’s blown up. That, ultimately, is the First-Book Syndrome—the complications that occur when an author has to wrap up the story from book one, while continuing it on into books two, three, four, etc…

Now I have to decide whether it’s time to start worrying about the pattern.

Divergent, by the way, fits my definition of science fiction (futuristic and technology-based rather than supernatural influence.) I have been told, though, that the proper term is dystopian. Just don’t think it is fantasy. It’s not—there is not only no supernatural presence, there is apparently no moral grounding for any of the characters. Now that’s disturbing.

It’s also one of the more disturbing problems that I noticed in The Hunger Games, more so than the First-Book issue.

Oh, yeah—the Hunger Games. I read the book Thursday morning last week, so I could go watch the movie that Friday. I’ll tell you my version of The Hunger Games in my next post.

Valentine's Day

This year, I’ve decided to rename Valentine’s Day.

Before I explain why, I must admit that my family has never made a big deal about this particular holiday. We’ve never made a big deal about any particular holiday—it’s just not part of the family genetic code.

Sure, we celebrate Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. Yes, my dad buys a dozen red roses for my mom on Valentine’s Day, their anniversary, and other occasions throughout the year. Yes, we have special outings and treats and family gatherings. We just tend to be laid back about such festivities.

“Oh? Yeah! That’s nice…”

“Umm, what have you been reading recently?”

For one reason or another, I’ve never learned how to be properly enthusiastic and excited about all the things a young woman should be enthusiastic and excited about.

I’ve also not had much practice to help me learn excitement and enthusiasm—particularly regarding Valentines and romance. In the past, I’ve tried to avoid Valentine’s, especially as I notice more and more of the PR sales related to romance and ‘special friends.’ It’s kind of hard to ignore the day when so many of my friends have reasons to celebrate it, but I try.

A little cynical, you say? Probably.

This year hasn’t changed much, but I’m a little happier to see February 14th on the calendar.

Last week, before class, several of my students gave me small Valentine’s gifts.

Some people might think that a dozen roses, jewelry, chocolate, and an elaborate dinner are essential to Valentine’s Day. I’m happy with a single rosebud made from floral tape and two Hershey’s kisses.

For those of you who are dating, courting, engaged, newly-wed, long-time married—congratulations! Maybe I’ll join your ranks someday.

This year, though, I’m renaming the holiday as “I-Like-My-Tutor Day.” And, conversely, “I-Really-Like-My-Students Day.” It’s not about romance, just about being good friends and working together on logic and mock trial and short stories.

To make it even better, I’ll spread it over two weeks. Last week, they brought me Hershey’s kisses. This week, I’m planning to take them cookies. We’ll eat them in class while discussing opening speeches, witness statements, and objections—and all the other lovely homework topics!

And you?

La Abeja Reina



And "Tortuga," the turtle

Queen bee,
Chimpanzee,
Goldfish
And gorillas…

I’ve mentioned before that I like languages. More recently, I mentioned taking a Spanish class this fall. I had to drop out of the class this spring, due to a scheduling conflict, but I’ve still been studying Spanish at irregular intervals. That is to say, today I was typing vocabulary lists into a spreadsheet. Long, long lists about “la familia y los amigos” and “el reino de los animales.”

Since I like words, and I like playing with words—and I like playing with the history of words as well—I started trying to decipher the linguistic peculiarities of these vocabulary words:

Who, for example, came up with “la mariposa?” Yes, I’ve heard the word before, but I never knew its translation. To my ears, it sounds somehow more “butterfly-like” than the English word, and “la libélula” sounds far more onomatopoetic and gorgeous than plain, old “dragonfly.”

I can’t explain how those words came into being, but a few others sound more familiar—“la foca” I recognize because I know its Latin root “phoca” or “seal”…thanks to reading Sir Walter Scott’s The Antiquarian several years ago. “La mosca,” which rhymes, reminds me of its French linguistic cousin, “le mouche” or “fly.” And who needs much translation for our friends “el elefante,” “la jirafa,” or “el hámster?”

"Hippo," el hipopótamo

I can also guess how, in the world of compound names, we happened to be introduced to two other old friends—hook-foot and mountain-jumper (“la garrapata” and “la saltamontes”). In English, we know them as ticks and grasshoppers.

But can someone explain how the “r” in “crocodile” jumped several letters back to become “el cocodrile?” Or why “o” became “e” to make “dolphin” into “el delfín?”

And can “el escarabajo,” the beetle, possible have a connection to “scarab?”

Sometimes, of course, the word’s origins are much more obvious—for example, when you want to explain why “mosquito” resembles “el mosquito.”

Yes, I like words, and the history of words, and all the extraneous explanations for how they got here and where they are going. Sometimes they seem simply anomalous; sometimes you can tell exactly how cupboards and bookshelves and grasshoppers came to be called by their names. And at other times, we seem to have chased and pulled them across continents in our hurry-and-scurry lives. In other words…

"León," the lion

…leónes, y tigres y osos—oh my!