Use It or Lose It

I’m about a third of the way through Philippa Mein Smith’s A Concise History of New Zealand, and I’m starting to get the hang of some of the words she’s using. Mein Smith carefully uses Maori words for Maori objects and concepts throughout the book. She includes a glossary in the back, but once she’s explained it once in the actual text, that’s it, you have to remember what it means or constantly flip back to see what she’s talking about. This shouldn’t be hard, of course; many books introduce unfamiliar English terms and don’t re-explain them later, and I’m pretty easily able to file that new vocabulary word away in my brain and apply it to the reading at hand. But non-English phrases always stump me. My brain takes extra time to process them, even after a clear definition, so that I really am constantly flipping back to the glossary to see what she’s talking about. I find it frustrating to have to do this, but it is actually getting less frequent. I can remember now that “waka” means “large, ocean-going canoe” and “Pakeha” is the word for “white people of European descent” in the Maori language. I know that the more I think of these words themselves instead of their translations, the more I’m actually understanding the text and the culture it’s describing.

Language is hugely important in understanding anything about ourselves or others (and to some, it’s the only thing that matters at all, depending on how committed to language as sole meaning you are, but that’s a discussion for philosophers and English majors). To use the language of the people you’re learning about is to get a better sense of the nuances of words and the layers of meaning in each phrase. For example, as Mein Smith points out, the Maori weren’t Maori until the Pakeha arrived. It took the arrival of a whole new set of people to necessitate the construction of identity in opposition to (that doesn’t mean conflict with) the newcomers. So we get Maori and Pakeha, and Pakeha is different from Europeans. “Pakeha” implies intrusion, late arrival, strange new customs. “Europeans” implies Old World, civilization, explorers. “Europeans” may be the appropriate word in certain portions of histories, or in histories that don’t involve the Maori at all. But for Maori-Pakeha relations, “Pakeha” is the appropriate word to use. This repositions us, the American readers and travelers, from an outsider’s perspective so that we’re in New Zealand, with the Maori. This isn’t to say we suddenly become insiders and get to talk about the Maori as our brothers and sisters — that is just appropriation. But it does mean we get closer to understanding this point of view, this way of seeing and discussing the world, and that is a key part of travel.

I’m pretty bad at learning languages, but I’ve always wanted to be fluent in more than one. I want to be able to communicate with people in their language, to get their jokes and idioms, to see the world without translation. I don’t see myself becoming fluent in anything any time soon (although I do keep trying French), but I can learn a few words of the language everywhere I go. Saying “please” and “thank you” can seem like the lazy American’s concession to culture, but it doesn’t have to be. It can be a very real way to show respect for those you can’t understand, and a simple attempt to show appreciation for the communication you are having — be it through a translator, with gestures and pantomimes, or with their own knowledge of English.

Whether in a book or in a real life conversation, if you can use a word from the relevant language and use it with a good understanding of its many meanings and not just a word-for-word translation, chances are you’ll gain a better understanding of the culture that uses that language. Use it enough times til you’re comfortable with it, and then there’s no need to get lost in translation.

What I Do When I Read

I am now in the middle of a couple good books, and I’m realizing that the editor’s voice in the back of my mind can never be fully turned off. I find bad word choices jarring, I cringe at stilted dialogue, and I just about pass out when I find a spelling error. As a former lowly worker in the publishing industry, I know how little editors are paid and appreciated, but every time I wince while reading a new novel, I want to call up the editor in charge and offer my services gratis.

Of course, some of this impulse to edit on the go comes from being a voracious reader, and I know many bookish non-editor types who confess to the same reading habits. I was an English major in college, trained to read closely and carefully, looking for broad themes, detailed characterization, and turns of phrase. I was also a Women’s Studies minor, which means that I read everything closely and carefully in an entirely different manner — not looking for the artistic merit of the work, but rather for the politics at play in the writing, the subject matter, what is omitted and what is left in. The former kind of reading is often best suited for fiction and poetry, but a feminist lens can be trained on fiction and nonfiction alike. As I referenced in my post and comments a couple weeks ago, I love reading any kind of media critically. I feel much more involved in whatever I’m reading/viewing/consuming.

I’m currently tearing through Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, the first in a popular YA series of novels about a post-American-apocalypse society that requires 24 kids a year to fight to the death in the wilderness, on camera. It’s like Death Race 2000, but with teenagers and no speedy cars. It’s an engrossing read, as you might imagine, and the main character, Katniss, is easy to like and also easy to sympathize with as she makes rash decisions, hurts people who care for her, and generally behaves like a teenager, albeit one faced with the horrifying task of hunting and killing her peers before they kill her.

Nifty cover design on The Hunger Games

When I’m reading this book, I am first and foremost looking to have fun, to immerse myself in a strange-but-scarily-not-so-strange world, and eagerly anticipate what happens next. I’m reading for tight plotting, characters who change in interesting ways, and, uh, brutal deaths. I’m two-thirds of the way through, and so far I’m not disappointed, but I did have to put the book down and huff about “these editors today” when I read a line about a noise that PROCEEDED a certain action. No, it did not. It quite possibly CAME BEFORE, in a PRE kind of way, like maybe it PRECEDED that action. I never took a single Latin class, but I’ve read enough to understand the basics of prefixes and suffixes, and how they fit into words we use on a pretty regular basis. An editor should be a reader first, and the other necessary skills follow. If you’ve read enough, and paid enough attention to the words themselves as you’re reading (and not just the story), and you don’t have a problem with spelling in general (I know that’s a real thing) or another learning disability, you will start to notice that things like “The gong proceeded the announcer arriving” are ridiculous, and you will open your red pen with a flourish as you go to work. Ahem. Anyway. Get off my lawn.

The other book I’m reading is A Concise History of Australia by Stuart Macintyre. (I know, right? Finally! Get on that ACAM project, already, Lisa!) I am only 10 pages in, and it is already leagues better than A Traveller’s History of Australia by John Chambers. Both books start off with some discussion of the Aborigines’ arrival in Australia and way of life there for thousands of years before Cook showed up in 1770. But Chambers’ book starts with Cook, fills in the Aborigines for a couple of pages, writes them off basically as uncivilized savages, and then gets back to the white people. Macintyre, on the other hand, starts with Cook, describes that popular history timeline, then introduces the Aboriginal arrival as the more accurate starting point, and delves into what this means for history and the national Australian story.

I’m ditching Chambers for Macintyre, no question. His whole worldview is more comprehensive and more complex than Chambers’, and that is the kind of worldview I’m looking for when learning about new places. Every record of history will have its own perspective, prejudices, and problems, but I’m going to seek out those histories that at least acknowledge that fact and engage with the challenges in recording history — what you leave in, what you leave out, whose point of view you use (let’s be clear that third person does not equal objectivity; everyone has a specific point of view), what conclusions you draw, etc.

Which I suppose brings me back to the two kinds of reading I do — the literary and the analytical. The truth is that good analytical thinking is applicable to any kind of writing, and literary analysis can be applied to even dry nonfiction (does the writer return to her themes? does she use clear, concise language — or, if she’s experimenting with a different form, does she use that form to good effect?).

A good reader uses different tools for reading different types of writing, but the basics are the same. In my case, being a good reader (of this Macintyre book but also of the Collins book) means reading not just for style and content, but also for context, intent, and implications. Learning about new countries is useless if that knowledge is based on faulty logic, privileged premises, and shortsighted analysis. When readers insist on seeing books that go beyond this limited, damaging writing to writing that engages in complex, challenging concepts and discussions, we’ll see more of such writing. The writing will improve, the discussions centered around that writing will improve, and eventually the social and political mindset will improve. Yes, art is that powerful.

I once told my English professor that I wished I were a better writer. “All I’m good at,” I told him morosely, “is reading.” He looked right at me and said, “Actually, I think being a good reader is just as important as being a good writer.” I’m beginning to see what he meant.

I ❤ Reading

A Biblio’s Struggle

I am currently fighting with the Chicago Public Library, since I can’t get to several books I have on hold, including a history of Australia that I’m anxious to start on. Which is not to say I’ve been slacking, dearest fellow travelers. I’m reading Art in Australia and listening to The Rough Guide to Australian Aboriginal Music, and Love Serenade just showed up from Netflix. But since the Logan Square branch, which is holding some materials hostage, has apparently changed their operating hours, I haven’t had a chance to get some other things. Never fear, I’m on it. My lovely roommate D. may get a chance to retrieve them tonight, which’d be great.

Updates on my Australian research to come!

P.S. Did you know that Tuesday was Australia Day? January 26 is like a combination of July 4th and Columbus Day — it’s the national celebration of Captain Cook’s arrival in Botany Bay. The Columbus Day angle comes into play as this is, of course, a European-based celebration of the English settlement of an already-occupied land. Some people refer to January 26 as the Aboriginal Day of Mourning, Invasion Day, and even Survival Day.

ETA: Lies! It’s the national celebration of the arrival of the First Fleet, the convicts sent over from England as punishment. Cook showed up many years before. Shoddy research; my apologies.

Literature is Everywhere

I’m researching my next blog post, and I have The Last Waltz on, when suddenly I’m in junior year of high school again: some dude is standing on stage between sets of The Band’s last concert, reciting the opening stanza of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English. Looks like it wasn’t just ELHS that assigned its students to commit Chaucer’s prologue to memory forever and ever. This man’s English teacher would be proud for spreading the literature love. “Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,” indeed.

By the way, this movie is as awesome as I’d heard. Joni secretly singing background vocals on Neil Young’s “Helpless” is my favorite so far.