For practically all my adult life, I’ve made my living by using words.
It’s either been on the pages of this newspaper, or another one or two from time to time, or in magazines, or in corporate communications and public relations. When that wasn’t the case, it was behind the pulpits of various churches scattered across Virginia or North Carolina. And sometimes, both of those things were going on at the same time.
Never in all those years did I claim to be the all-knowing, end-all and do-all of the English language and its usage. But as the late Sen. Sam Ervin of North Carolina said during the Watergate hearings of ancient history — when pressed by a member of President Nixon’s team as to “how do you know that’s what the Constitution says?” — Senator Sam told the young fellow, “Because it’s in English and that’s my mother tongue.”
That’s pretty much how I felt about my understanding and usage of the language. In the interest of complete transparency here, I can’t take all the credit for what I did come to know. Instead, I’ve got to acknowledge some great English teachers with whom I walked the halls of Pittsboro High School years ago who not only taught the subject but made it fun to learn. My hat is off and always will be to the late Annie May and to Mary Riggsbee. I hope somewhere along the line I did not disappoint or let down these two stellar ladies.
There are several reasons words are so important to me. One is because I can’t and couldn’t do much with science and math in high school, college or life. That’s not a whine but rather a statement of fact. By the same token, history and civics and English were my stronger points and they were topped off by learning to type so I could benefit from those subjects. Actually, I had other strong points — lunch, for one, in high school and while in college, I learned early on how to cut class and flunk out several times, a feat that enabled me to cram a four-year course into seven calendar years.
I don’t recommend that to today’s youth as a way to get ahead.
Another reason I like words is because they are a primary way we share news, information and ideas with other folks. Now granted, there are other ways to get your message across and I always say that to couples whose wedding I’m to perform. One of those ways is body language. If, for instance, your true love wants to say something important about her day and you’d rather watch the football game, you’ve conveyed a message without ever saying a word. And when you combine words and body language, well, sometimes that’s a deal-breaker...or home run, depending.
As long as words mean what they’re supposed to mean, I can do pretty well with understanding. It’s when the meanings and/or usage changes that I get confused.
Case in point: Years ago, when the two 40-somethings who used to be teenagers who lived at my house were spreading their wings, certain words underwent a change in meaning. I remember one in particular: “bad.”
Now to me and my generation, “bad” was when your behavior wasn’t up to what it should be or referred to the grade I made on an 11th grade chemistry test when we were required to balance 25 equations. Obviously, that meant each answer was worth four points apiece. The fact I answered two right out of the 25 meant I scored an 8 on that test, a “bad” grade any way you looked at it. That was about the time I came to realize science and math were not going to be my strong points, that and the “bad” grades I was making on trigonometry and calculus.
One day, however, in the life of my teenagers’ generation, that learned English scholar Dr. Michael Jackson coined a new meaning for “bad.” It came to mean “good.” I remember how I was introduced to that fact.
One weekend night, those two aforementioned youngsters went with their group to the movie at, I think, Randolph Mall back when that was a happening place. When they got home, the conversation went something like this:
Me: How was the movie?
Them: It was so bad. We sat through it twice.
Me: Well, if it was so bad, why did you watch it again?
Them: Oh, Daddy ...
That last bit of communication I clearly understood from their tone of voice and body language. It meant, “Daddy, you are a feeble-minded pea-brained dinosaur who isn’t capable of coming out of the rain.” That, of course, is the same idea I had about my folks when they could not appreciate the finer points of The Four Tops’ rendition of “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” and “Baby, I Need Your Loving.”
I thought I had come to grips with much of the changing nature of language today, but I must confess there is one usage in today’s society I do not get. I understand what it means to protest; I did some of that when my teachers assigned what I thought was too much homework or when my mama made me pick up rocks in her vegetable garden. But when the major news networks of today refer to what has been and is going on in cities across our country as “peaceful protests,” I’m lost.
To me, peaceful protests are what the folks in Chapel Hill, students and townspeople alike, did every Wednesday at noon on Franklin Street to protest the Vietnam War during the 1960s and 70s. I don’t ever remember any of them tossing rocks, bricks or cinder blocks through the windows of The Hub and stealing the clothes or burning and ransacking The Record Bar and making off with LPs or shooting and killing any of the Flower Ladies in broad daylight because they didn’t like their daisies or roses.
Is there a new meaning of “peaceful” and I just happened to have missed it?
