Do You Wish To Write Well?

Understanding Grammar

And Writing Well

Without the Erudite, the Esoteric,

or the Mundane

By

palavering@msn.com

Introduction

A good starting point toward our goal of understanding grammar would be to begin by defining it and its history. Too many people devote too much time trying to enhance their vocabularies in an attempt to present a more intelligent perception of themselves, while shunning any reference to the study of grammar. But what good should it do us to learn by rote a surfeit of words, but then fail to comprehend how to correctly construct a sentence?

The term grammar has an interesting, if peculiar, history. The word originally connoted learning in language(s) and literature. It eventually came to mean any sort of general learning, hence the concept of a grammar school. At one time, centuries ago, the word grammar also referred to the learning of astrology and magic, of all things occult. The Scottish then transformed grammar into glamour, which today means enchanting and exciting.[1]

It appears that the Greeks, circa the first century, were probably the first to develop a grammar. The Romans, in turn, applied rules to their Latin. Eventually, scores of countries throughout Europe developed grammars to create standards for their languages. Until the publication of Doctor Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary in 1755, however, there were few specific or standardized rules for English-speaking people. Although several English dictionaries surfaced before Johnson’s, his became the magnum opus of the century. It was not until publication of The Oxford English Dictionary 150 years later that Johnson’s English Dictionary suffered an affectionate preemption.

So, what is English grammar? It provides the rules we should use in the construction of a sentence. That’s it! There is no need to complicate matters. As an example of what grammar does for a  writer of English, we would not write, “home walked He than, hurry rather.” Instead, the rules of grammar insist (sort of) that we write, “He walked home, rather than hurry.”

Of course, no one enforces the rules of English grammar, not even the government. There are putative experts in the field, but they cannot impose grammatical restrictions at will. No one, save Mother Persuasion, can prevent anyone from writing benighted sentences should they choose to do so. The only penalty that we will pay for practicing poor grammar is that a passel of people—our family, our friends, our employer, our co-workers, and virtually anyone else who reads our written work—will think we’re stupid! It’s a perception that most of us would rather avoid.

There are two groups to which the interested reader can turn for assistance: the first group, known as the prescriptivists, are lexically conservative; they battle rigorously to sustain and protect what is known as Standard English. On the other side of the linguistic fence reside the descriptivists, who, for the most part, believe that there is no such thing as Standard English, that the way a person speaks and writes is neither right nor wrong. The cautious reader will listen closely to the prescriptivists while never completely dismissing the colloquial wisdom of the descriptivists.

So, why is a grammar necessary? Put simply, words are the tools of thought. Without a grammar to guide us, our thoughts would be a tangled, incomprehensible mess! Words are the primary method by which we communicate with ourselves. Having the ability to communicate with others through words is a corollary benefit. As one writer properly puts things in perspective: “The ability to express ourselves is not a frill for the edges of life, but an indispensable tool of our self-understanding, our understanding of others, and our rational contact with the world around us." [2]

Is it possible to think without words? Of course, but our potential to acquire knowledge would be severely restricted (and our capacity to retain exponentially waxing images would be quickly diminished).[3] Consider the word furniture: it represents tables, chairs, sofas, dining room sets, beds and bureaus, etcetera—the list is almost infinite. If we were to employ these objects using only facsimiles (mental images), it would be too time-consuming to get anything else done. Moreover, abstract thinking would be impossible. The old adage that a picture is worth a thousand words is utter nonsense. It seems to me that the opposite is much more likely, that a word may be worth a thousand pictures! For example, when I write the word love, I wonder how many images it brings to your mind.

The mere mention of grammar seems to send the faint of heart heading for the hills at full speed. In fact, it’s a subject that most people would prefer to avoid. The simple truth is that grammar has its own jargon, and its jargon tends to lead many of us to think it’s extremely difficult, if not impossible, to understand. Additionally, grammar seems to be replete with rules—and scores of exceptions to those rules. And, yes, it has exceptions to the exceptions.

But all is not loss. First, everyone makes an occasional grammatical error. Even the most celebrated authors and linguists confess to the odd grammatical gaffe. After all, no one is perfect. Moreover, it is not our intent to write perfectly, but to write concisely; i.e., with clarity and brevity. It can be done! All it takes is a passion for language and a commitment to improving—not perfecting—your writing skills.

You may have noted that I refer only to your writing skills, never mentioning your verbal skills. I do so because I believe that once you have mastered the art of writing, your verbal skills will improve coincidentally.

You might ask, But isn’t it necessary to enjoy a voluminous vocabulary in order to write effectively? In my view, vocabulary is least important in enhancing one’s communications skills. I have met many people with limited vocabularies who are capable of constructing a sentence that will dazzle you for days. So knowing how to arrange the several parts of speech in a sentence is a fundamental skill that ought never be subsumed.

Consider the following sentences: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” “I regret that I have but one life to give to my country.” “Give me liberty, or give me death.” “An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last.” “I swear, by my life and my love of it, that I shall never live for the sake of another man, nor ask any man to live for mine.” “Four score and seven years ago . . .” The point is that these words will send a chill along your spine, yet not one word is erudite (known only to the intelligentsia), esoteric (not known by the general masses), or sesquipedalian (words that are a foot and a half long!).

Let’s face it: you wouldn’t be reading this book if you didn’t appreciate the effort that it takes to construct an interesting and well-written sentence. If language lovers are to confess to a certain truth, a well-turned phrase can set us swooning. It’s usually not what someone has to say about something, it’s the way in which he or she says it.

Word usage, not vocabulary, follows closely behind grammar. How many times has someone written your when they meant to write you’re? And how often have you seen its when the writer meant it’s? A list of common usage errors could fill books—and does! In the end, it matters little how extensive our vocabulary is, if almost every sentence is guided by grammatical ignorance.

Beyond understanding the rules of grammar, a familiarity with how to use certain words correctly is vital to good writing. Pronouns such as who/whom cause many novices and professionals alike to grope for the right choice. Knowing when to use the word as, instead of like, cripples many writers, too. The puzzling threesome, who, that, and which, are often confused and abused. Understanding when you have a dilemma and when you have a predicament or a conundrum can also be perplexing. Do we decimate or do we destroy? As we shall discover throughout our studies, many words have similar definitions but subtle shades of differences as well. We’ll learn more about this later.

This is not to say that a good vocabulary isn’t a commendable goal. There are times when every writer longs for the right word, the word that expresses precisely what he or she is trying to convey. Mark Twain wrote: “. . . (T)he difference between the almost-right word and the right word is really a large matter—it’s the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.” The French refer to this concept as “Le mot juste.”  Another aspect of good writing is being able to communicate ideas using a minimum of words. Concise writing, that is, writing that is brief and clear, is the linchpin of effective communication. So, enhancing your vocabulary is essential to improving your writing skills, but it is only one spoke in the complex lexical wheel.

We are the conceptual animal; we are not governed primarily by instinct or impulse. Nor are we born knowing how to survive the many trials and tribulations that life presents, or how we might enhance our positions in the human hierarchy. Our survival is predicated on our potential to effectively engage our minds in the process of reasoning.

Putting aside innate biological factors, our command of language determines the level of concrete and abstract thinking that we can successfully perform. The more familiar we are with the rules of grammar and proper word usage, the more compelling is our ability to reason effectively.

In a nutshell, our potential to live efficaciously is directly related to the measure of knowledge that we have assimilated regarding the successful use of our native tongue. That, dear reader, ought to be incentive enough to have you quickly turning to the next page.

Chapter One

Mark Twain, aka Samuel Clemens, often remarked that perfect grammar seemed to reside in the fourth dimension. He clearly understood that no one was ever completely shorn of grammatical error or escaped culpability. E.B. White wrote: “English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment, and education—sometimes it’s sheer luck, like getting across the street.”

Still, grammar has always been important to the serious person: “I will not go down to posterity talking bad grammar,” wrote Benjamin Disraeli. Michel de Montaigne proclaimed that “The greater part of the world’s troubles are due to questions and grammar.” And it appears that Ambrose Bierce heartily agreed with him when he described grammar as “A system of pitfalls thoughtfully prepared for the feet of a self-made man, along the path by which he advances to distinction.”

So, it would appear that grammar gives even the best writers pause. But that doesn’t mean that we should retreat and live in grammatical ignorance. Sydney Smith offers writers hope by proclaiming: “In composing, as a general rule, run your pen through every other word (that) you have written; you have no idea what vigor it will give your style.”

---

[1] See http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=grammar.

[2] Royal Bank of Canada, The Communication of Ideas 37 (rev. ed. 1972).

[3] Our memory banks are as limited as a hard disk drive in a computer is limited. We can store scores more words than we can store images.

The Incomplete Guide To Everything

 

You’ll usually find a wealth of information on this site.  Almost all of it will be incomplete, but at the same time it should be interesting.  I don’t do complete, unless I’m being remunerated for my effort; I have too much going on in my life, plus I admit to an obvious and egregious lack of self-discipline.  I wish I didn’t get so excited about so many things, but I do.  I usually scribe about things that immediately grab my attention.  And I am a bit of a gadfly.  When something new sets me off, well, I just stop what I’m doing and start pressing the keys on my wireless keyboard.  And it is my hope that I can puncture the claims of the prejudiced, the mundane, and the benighted.

Let me know what you think.

The Enchantment

The following is copyright material and fiction.  Literary agents may leave a message by clicking on the comments link below, should they wish to contact me.

Being shy is not a good thing.  I think being a buffoon is better.  Of course, I am both shy and a buffoon—a living breathing contradiction, I suppose.  I’d rather not be shy or a buffoon, but I have to accept what I am, I guess.  It could always be worse, that’s my attitude.  My dad tells me to try and stay focused on my assets, not on my liabilities.  He means well, but it’s easier said than done.  I think I conceal my shyness at school very well by sometimes acting like a buffoon.  Certainly, being a buffoon is much more comfortable for me, while being shy is an awful feeling that always leaves my mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert.  I get so darn nervous that my eyes sting.  I blink and squint, too, not to mention that sweat just pours like a reckless river from my scrunched brow.  When I’m shy, it’s like I’m out of control.

I’m prepubescent, which means the hair follicles waiting impatiently to sprout from my armpits haven’t awakened yet.  But when that happens, which will be soon enough, what a mess I’m going to have to face, especially being as shy and sweaty as I am.  I’ll probably have to work day and night just to be able to afford antiperspirant.  I can already imagine the sodden birds’ nests festering in the hollows of my gangly, freckled arms.  It’s a sorry picture, isn’t it?  I’ll probably grow lots of messy hair inside my ears, too, just like Mister Marckem, our neighbor up the street.  He’s a pretty nice guy and all, but I’ve seen him in a bathing suit at the local YMCA a few times, and boy, is he one hairy beast.  I know most kids are dying to become teenagers, but I can tell you for sure that I’m in no hurry to mature.  All I have to do is think about poor Mister Marckem.

I can be daring and witty and take risks, just like kids who aren’t hampered with my malady, as I like to call it.  Being buffoonish gives me a chance to fit in with the other kids, and not feel like a freak of nature.  Oscar Wilde decided, so said my English teacher of last year, that the way to win people over is to feed them, to amuse them, or to shock them.  I decided that I can’t feed anyone, not even myself.  After all, I’m not hardly old enough.  And I am not constitutionally capable of shocking anybody.  I wouldn’t know how to begin.  So, buffoonery is my answer.

I used to try to talk to my mom about being so shy.  She told me that I was just being too sensitive, that all kids are a little introverted.  I disagreed—respectfully and silently, of course.  There are degrees of shyness, and I hesitate to say it, but I’m way out there in left field.  When I told her that I was a buffoon at school, she got upset for a minute, but she calmed down really fast.  She always does.  (If I wasn’t bringing home really good grades, though, believe me, she’d still be upset.)  Mom is not the kind of person who allows others to interfere for very long with what she’s got planned for her day, or for her life, if the truth be known.  Not a very sympathetic person, I guess some could honestly say.  She’s a good person, though.  She’s just a busy person.  She’s always reminding me how it’s a full-time job being a homemaker.  She says I’m lucky that I’m not a girl.  I guess I think I’m lucky, too.  Certainly, if I were a girl I couldn’t get away with being a buffoon.

My mom is the kind of person who works hard at staying busy.  Most people, I think, are busy working hard.  I’m not just playing with words here.  There is a difference, in my view.  I guess Mom just doesn’t like being idle.  Being idle is the devil’s workshop, she’s told me a gazillion times.  Yeah, right!  The things grown-ups will say to get kids to take out the trash, or mow the lawn, or do their homework or the dishes. I mean, why don’t they just say, “Take out the trash, please?”  Like I said before, I’m in no hurry to become an adult.

Although kids don’t have much say about their lives, maybe that’s real power—I mean, not having much to say about what we can or can’t do.  At least we don’t have to be making decisions about our lives every five minutes.

Sometimes I wonder if Mom’s just trying to forget something by keeping so busy all the time.  Lots of people try to forget bad experiences by staying busy.  But I don’t think it’s working for my mom.  I remember a day—it was either a Saturday or a Sunday, I can’t remember which—when I decided not to do anything, just to hang around the house and be lazy.  Dad invited me to a baseball game, but I respectfully declined.  He was kind of disappointed and I felt bad for a while.  I watched Mom clean all the ashtrays in the house at least three or four times in the space of less than a few hours—and my parents don’t smoke!  Dad just chortled quietly to himself as Mom took flight around the house doing one crazy chore after another.  I tried at one point to engage her in a conversation about my latest curiosity—girls—but she sneaked into the basement.  The familiar swishing sound of the washing machine forced me to stuff any thoughts I had about using her as a sounding board.

My dad’s a benevolent kind of guy.  He just seems to take everything in stride.  When he came home from the war, everyone kept watching him to see how it changed him.  Dad had been in his share of wartime battles and everyone knew it, though he never discussed any war stories with me, or anyone else.  But there was almost no change in Dad.  He was the same good guy he had been before he went away to fight for the country.  Dad came home, took a few days to do some leisure stuff with Mom and to take me to the zoo, and then he took up his old job as head pharmacist at Swartz’s Apothecary.  It was almost like he had never left us.  I think that’s really remarkable.

I can remember when Dad came home from the war during mid-October of nineteen forty-five.  Mom was so nervous that she probably could have held a glass of Carnation’s condensed milk in her hand and conjured up butter, lickety-split.  She dusted everything in the house a billion times, including, of course, the ashtrays.  Using a wooden ruler for precision, Mom straightened all the pictures on the wall several times.  She placed all the latest Popular Mechanics magazines—my Dad’s favorite—in a neat stack on a shelf underneath one of the now super-polished end tables, next to our living room sofa. It was the most persnickety I’d ever seen her.  She really wanted everything to be perfect for Dad.

Mom may be a little weird in her ways (no disrespect intended), but nobody could ever doubt how much she adores my father. My grandfather—Mom’s dad—told me that Mom’s had the “hots” for Dad since she first saw him at a high school dance. Gramps really upset Mom when she heard him joking with me about how she chased after my father “like a heifer in heat.” All of a sudden, Mom was hot under the collar. I expected at any moment to see real steam pouring from her pink ears. But Gramps finally calmed her, in his own cool way.

“Now, girlie,” he tried to pacify her, “there’s no need to be stretching your girdle. Just calm yourself before we have to haul you off to the loony bin.”

Gramps has a great sense of humor, I’m sure you’ve guessed. Mom told Gramps that he should know better than to talk so carelessly in front of an impressionable boy like me. She ranted for a while, mostly preachy stuff, but she soon decided that there was no winning with Gramps. I guess that’s what I like most about him; he just never gets his dander up, if you know what I mean. And he’s the only living human being who isn’t afraid to stand up to Mom, which I think is really cool.

Anyway, Mom spent two hours fixing her makeup on the day my father was to return home. Dad’s a handsome guy, over six feet tall, with dark, thick, wavy hair always neatly combed, and the kind of blue eyes that most girls swoon over. He’s the personification of a ladies’ man, in the true sense of that phrase. When he smiles and shows his ruler-straight pearly whites, Mom’s eyes always sparkle and seem to shiver like stars do on a clear night. Lots of Dad’s friends think he looks like Ronald Reagan.

My Mom is no slouch, either. She’s kind of a babe, like I already said. At least I think she is and so do a lot of other guys. I catch men staring at her—or should I say staring through her—when we’re walking to the grocery store or shopping somewhere. It makes me nervous the way that some guys, creepy-looking sorts, stare at my mother. It’s not respect that I see in their crummy faces; it’s something kind of ugly, maybe even sinful. You’d think that they could get some kind of manners.

Just the same, my mother is a real good-looking lady. Dad says she’s patrician. I had to look up the word in our Webster’s Unabridged, but he’s right: Mom does look patrician. She’s got dark blonde hair down to her shoulders; great green eyes that are real serious and intelligent; soft, silky skin that she’s always pouring crème on; and she’s got a great figure, if I can say that. I couldn’t be so audacious as to say that Mom is a real tomato—that wouldn’t be right, being her son and all—but I have to say that she’s a definite babe.

Mom’s kind of tall; she’s not a giant, but she isn’t short, either. My father says her legs run up to her earlobes. That’s hyperbole, of course. He’s always trying to con her into wearing shorts around the house, even in the dead of winter, if you can imagine. I don’t think that he can guess that I know why he likes to watch Mom bend over to pick up things, but I know he’s checking out her legs. Dad’s got a bit of the licentious in him, but he’s really harmless, and he loves Mom very specially. He’d die for her in a minute.

My Mom is punctilious (I had to dig out the dictionary to spell it right) and that can be annoying sometimes. It took her forever to get ready to leave for the train station to see my dad home from the war. She must have raced from the bathroom to the bedroom and back a million times or more. But I have to say that when she was finally ready to go, she looked truly beautiful. She had on this navy blue suit jacket with a single button at the waist. It was a large button with a golden anchor in the middle of it. She wore a white silk blouse with a wide collar. Her skirt—its hem halting at her knees—matched her jacket. I froze when she came busting into the kitchen to tell me we should leave or that we’d be late to meet my father. Yeah, right! Who was waiting for whom? But I never saw her look so absolutely, undeniably beautiful.

“How do I look, young man?” She nudged me with an elbow in an innocent, flirtatious manner. There was a special excitement in her voice. I had never seen her so carefree and alive. I felt all mushy and gooey inside.

“Wow, Mom! You look fantastic,” I blurted. “You’re super-duper, Mom. Just wait until Dad sees you. Boy, is he gonna flip!”

I think my mom knew that she was the most; I think she felt it in her brain, her body, and her soul. She just glowed like a lamppost at midnight. Mom doesn’t like the sun; she always says it dries the skin. She was always saying she didn’t understand why anyone would want to look like a prune. But she had a special blush to her face on this day, kind of pink and effervescent, like expensive champagne.

“You look handsome yourself, young man,” she said, pinching my cheek with one hand while she adjusted my trousers with the other. Just wait until Daddy sees his handsome son.”

Mom adjusted my trousers one more time, before we heard the eager horn from the taxi Mom had ordered earlier that morning. My mother slipped on my pea coat just as the doorbell rang. Yellow cab drivers didn’t like to be kept waiting, not even for a second. I ran to the door and turned the knob, with Mom following right behind me. She had slipped into her navy blue coat, which fell just below her knees. Using her delicate fingers and the palms of her hands, Mom checked every strand of hair on her lovely head to be sure it was in its proper place.

“You ordered a taxi, lady?” the driver grunted as our front door swung open.

I remember how quickly the stern look in the driver’s eyes was transformed into one of complete courtesy as soon as he got a gander at my mother. He gawked at Mom, brazenly but admiringly, which I found to be rude. His cabbie hat was thrown back carelessly on his head—just enough for me to notice that he was going bald. His burly face was clean-shaven, except for a thick, dark moustache under his porous nose—the moustache matching his bushy eyebrows. He wore a gray shirt with a cheap black bow tie, both items wrinkled and dappled with food stains. The dark grey trousers that he wore with a thick belt and large tarnished buckle were nearly two inches too short for him. The cuffs of his trousers rested above his ankles and evoked an image in my buffoonish mind of Charlie Chaplin wobbling down a sidewalk, looking as silly as a clown can look. The visor on his hat was coal black. It had probably been as shiny as patent leather at one time, but it was dull now and smeared from his unctuous fingerprints. He was a real sight.

“Yes, we’re ready,” Mom told him.

“Oh, I didn’t mean any disrespect, Missus,” he apologized. “If you and the boy need another minute, why just take it. I ain’t in no big hurry. Goin’ ta da station, right lady?” he asked demurely.

“Thank you, but we’re ready,” my mother replied. She didn’t heed the driver’s obvious infatuation with her. Mom knew that the best way to foil a gawker was to ignore him. She simply turned and locked the front door and turned again. “We’re ready,” she repeated to the driver.

I didn’t wait another second to flit down the concrete steps of our home—two at a time—and race to the front door of the taxi. I wanted to make sure that I got to ride in the front seat of the cab. Riding up front in a cab was (and still is) almost as good as a roller coaster ride at Willow Grove Amusement Park. In my view, it’s a real thrill that doesn’t happen to someone as young as I was. It’s one of those things that most adults take for granted, but that kids get a real rush from. I guess it would be equivalent to a grown-up riding in the cockpit of an airplane.

“You’ll want the boy in the back, won’t you, Missus?” the driver asked as he and Mom approached the taxi at the curb. I don’t get annoyed often or upset or angry, but I was perturbed with the driver. I mean, putting out crazy ideas about me sitting in the backseat! He just wanted my Mom up front with him so he could secretly check out her legs that went all the way up to her earlobes. He wasn’t fooling me. I was only a kid then, but I already knew the score.

“No, my son may have the front seat. I’m sure you’ll be kind enough to watch over him, won’t you?”

“Right, lady,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

My mother sure was slick—and still is. The driver opened the front door of the taxi for me and helped me to get situated comfortably. I remember wishing my legs were long enough to reach the floor of the taxi so that I could pretend that I was putting the pedal to the metal, pumping the brakes and clutch. But I didn’t fret over it; I was my mother’s son and I figured that soon enough I’d have legs up to my earlobes too.

Mom entered the rear of the taxi, being careful that her dress and coat didn’t rise above her knees, because we both knew that the driver might be secretly trying to get an eyeful.

We drove to North Philadelphia Station with me jibber-jabbering the whole trip, a total of about ten minutes. I think the driver tried once or twice to start a conversation with my mother, but I interrupted him with questions about driving. I hinted around that I thought his steering wheel was the end, really cool. It had a dead man’s knob on it that looked like white pearl, and the driver was really deft at using it around corners. When he said I could reach over and touch it, I think I almost died and went to heaven.

“Mom, can I tell Dad?” I asked, excitedly.

“Sure, you can. But wait until we’re home, okay? You know your father has been on a long trip.”

“Your man military?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

“Coming home today?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” the driver muttered. You could tell that he felt thwarted that my mom wasn’t going to have a genuine conversation with him. But Mom is not the kind of person to have conversations with strangers just to have a conversation. She doesn’t mind silence; most of the time she prefers it. Not that she’s antisocial, because she’s not. I think she’s just picayune about whom she chooses to talk to. Besides, her best friends are books. Mom loves books and has instilled in me (with a great deal of effort and nagging) the enormous value in reading, especially reading the “Great Ones,” as she calls them. She’s lectured me on the importance of language, and how reading helps develop a mind and keep it alert and active. She can get pretty passionate about the subject.

Mom paid the driver and gave him a tip, too. He expressed his gratitude, wished us well, took one last, longing look at my mother—which somehow made me feel ashamed—and finally climbed back into his Yellow cab and took off. I took my mother’s hand. I’m not sure why, exactly. I think I felt a little insecure and a bit upset because the taxi driver had somehow tainted my mother in some really evil way, a way that is still incomprehensible to me. The way he had looked at my mom gave me a crazy urge to take a fast bath.

I mean, the driver had been giving my mother the once-over, intensely. I remember at the time wishing that some strange guy would really take a nasty gander at the driver’s mother at the very moment that our driver had been doing the same to mine! I wish these guys would get a life. I have sworn that I will never stare at any girl that way. It just isn’t right. Guys should think about it before they go checking out some female with their beady and swollen red rat eyes. They should consider that the woman that they’re staring at might be somebody’s daughter, sister or mother—that maybe she’s married to some nice guy who loves her very much, and that maybe she has a son.

I know that I shouldn’t have wished anything bad for the driver—or his poor, innocent mother. The driver had let me touch his neat steering wheel and his dead man’s pearl handle, so he wasn’t completely rotten, I guess. I’ve tried to control my bad thoughts since then, not that I have so many. I’ve discovered that being a good person isn’t as easy as I used to think it was. The difference between what’s right and what’s wrong doesn’t always appear to me like a rabbit from a hat. Why does it feel good sometimes to be upset or mad, to want to get even with someone who’s hurt you?

Mom clasped my hand tightly and we began to climb the wide concrete steps to the upper level of the railroad station to join the crowds of people waiting for new trains to arrive at the various outdoor train platforms. The air smelled of steel and metal and soot and cigarettes and cigars and cheap perfume and kids’ diapers and baby powder. What a mixture! It’s hard to describe what all the different odors smelled like in combination, but I can tell you that it didn’t smell like anything that makes you hungry.

The booming metallic voice of the station’s train announcer echoed from several loudspeakers, the cone-shaped devices hidden from view within the gray steel beams under the canopy of the long platform. The announcer’s deep voice resonated along the platform, conveying information about all the trains coming and going every few minutes. The shrill of anxious voices from the large crowds gathered on each of the many train platforms came to a screeching halt each time a new arrival or delay was announced. Nobody, it seemed, cared about the departures. As soon as an announcement ended, the muffled clacking of folks chattering nonstop would start all over again. It was quite an overwhelming sight to behold.

Mom gently pulled me along, keeping me closely at her side, while she threaded her way through the human congestion, locating a place for us to stand and wait on the platform. Dad’s train was due to arrive in about thirty minutes. The autumn sun was high in the cloudless azure sky. From time to time a crisp breeze whipped across the steel-canopied, concrete platforms, creating little eddies of dust and grit. Nobody likes to have gritting dirt smack them in the face, but I didn’t mind, because the breeze blew the caustic cigarette smoke away from my nostrils so that I could take a deep breath and smell the cool scent of the fall season’s cologne. Wow! Did I say that? I guess all the reading lessons that Mom always insists on do make a difference.

Mom glanced at her watch and then she glanced at it again. She looked up at one of the large, white-faced clocks with big black metal hands—precision timepieces situated atop tall, dark-green iron posts and positioned intermittently along the length of each platform. I had never seen some many clocks in one place. Mom told me that the railroad schedule was very important, that the trains must always try to run on time. When I asked her if Dad’s train was going to run on time, or run on the railroad tracks, she laughed for a moment. I guess you could call it nervous humor, maybe. A few minutes later came another announcement across the loudspeakers. Mom got excited this time. Her enchanting face flushed and she almost did a two-step right there on the platform.

“It’s Dad’s train!” she screamed excitedly. “He’s coming, Josh.”

It was one of the very few times I saw my mom show such emotion. She was really animated. To and fro, back and forth, she paced. I think she forgot that she was holding my hand (very tightly), and that I was being dragged all over the place with her. But I didn’t mind, not even a little bit. Mom was happy. Dad was coming home and life was going to be magnificent again.

I guess I wasn’t jumping up and down like Mom was, because, to tell the truth, I didn’t remember much of Dad; he was, frankly, a stranger to me. Of course, I knew what he looked like—handsome and all of that; Mom was always showing me the pictures Dad sent home to us. It’s just that I didn’t know him or remember much about what kind of guy he was. In fact, when Mom and I saw the train rounding the bend on the steel tracks that led to our platform, I got scared. Plenty scared.

But I was excited, too. Mom was squeezing my hand so tightly that it went numb. When I tried to wrestle my hand from her grip she only squeezed it more tightly. Mom, no matter whatever she has on her mind, has always been very protective of me.

She tried to maintain our position in the crowd pushing closer and closer to the edge of the train platform. People were nudging their way forward, occasionally shoving someone, including us, but everyone was mostly polite and said “excuse me” before they went on shoving their way toward the bright yellow caution line at the edge of the platform.

As the train’s locomotive drew closer to the station, I was startled by the thunderous vibration it created under my feet. The rumble of thousands of tons of steel in motion was magnificent. Boy, it was a big train—the biggest I’d ever seen in real life. It inched slowly forward and now people began to get rambunctious, shouting and shoving. But nobody got out of control. Some guy said a curse word and another guy told him to take his mouth to the dry cleaners. The two guys stared each other down for a few seconds, but then it was all over.

Standing on tiptoe (that’s got to hurt in high heels), Mom peered into the tinted windows of the passenger cars as they crept by us. The train was stuffed to the brim with young men from the military. Soldiers, sailors, and Marines began pushing up the windows of the passenger cars, their arms flailing wildly. Several guys threw their hats at people standing on the platform, the crowd cheering them on like crazy. One woman screamed and jumped into the arms of a sailor hanging waist-high out of one of the train’s windows. I watched as another woman spied her soldier waving to him almost hysterically, her eyes growing as big as saucers. Then she stuck out her thumb like she was hitchhiking and pulled up her pleated skirt almost to her thigh! All the guys hanging out of the windows whistled and hooted for more.

I remember seeing two teenage girls, both wearing bobby sox and pleated skirts and tight woolen sweaters under their open coats, twirling batons wildly and singing at the top of their lungs something that sounded patriotic. Lots of women were holding their kids up into the air as if they were prizes some of the men on the train had won. I realized then that lots of the guys on the train had children who they had never seen before, except maybe in photographs. What a wild and happy moment it must have been for them.

Mom kept looking for Dad but I could tell from the look on her face that she hadn’t spotted him yet. Her brow began to wrinkle a little as the long train finally screeched to a complete stop. But her eyes continued to sparkle and stayed wide, filled with hope and anticipation, and I can tell you now that she was the prettiest lady there.

The young men started to alight from the train. Women and children raced furiously into their arms. Everybody was hugging and kissing and crying and laughing. It was really wonderful. The guys were holding their kids, looking them over in a special way that makes you understand that they loved the children in their arms—even though they’d never seen them before. I remember hoping that my dad would love me like those guys loved their kids.

All of a sudden the loudspeakers began to broadcast the “Star Spangled Banner.” At first everyone was startled, but they soon stopped whatever it was that they were doing and stood at attention. All the men saluted in the direction of the music. I saw tears running down the faces of people, some young and some not so young. Even though the music was playing loudly, there was an ironic silence—I want to call it a silence of the people—that represented something tragic and not to be forgotten, something done proudly and to always be remembered, and something that was, best of all, finally over.

There was a lot of commotion, lots of passionate kissing, and hugging. Some of it was downright embarrassing. I recall thinking that some of the couples were going to lose their breath and maybe die, or never be able to get untangled from each other.

A few more minutes went by. The platform was still very crowded, but people were beginning to act more civilized and babies weren’t whining as much. Mom and I squinted from one passenger car to the next, looking for Dad. Every time another sailor stepped from a passenger car I could feel Mom’s heart stop, and then I’d hear her sigh with disappointment.

“Where is he, Mom?” I asked, suddenly a little worried.

She just squeezed my hand tighter. That was enough for me. If Mom thought everything would be okay, then I knew everything would be okay.

Almost like magic, the crowd separated a little and Mom and I could see all the way down to the end of the platform. There was a soldier assisting a sailor from the last passenger car. The sailor had to use a cane as he stepped slowly and carefully from the train. A conductor handed two duffle bags to the soldier and tipped his hat to both men. The soldier threw a duffle bag over each shoulder and trailed behind the limping sailor as the two of them moved toward the center of the train platform.

A voice boomed over the loudspeakers: “Folks,” the deep voice announced, “we have an injured man moving along the platform. Please be decent enough to allow him through. I repeat: injured man coming through.”

The sailor’s handsome face blushed. He lowered his head and tried to move more swiftly, his injured left leg dragging slightly. The people on the train platform courteously split in half, creating an open aisle for the injured sailor and the helpful soldier. It was really odd the way the whole world seemed to go silent. Babies stopped crying, the crazy chattering of the crowd hushed. The afternoon sun quietly continued its afternoon descent toward the western horizon, casting a sepia-like light across the platform, illuminating the way for the injured sailor, his left leg still dragging slightly and his head still bent kind of piously.

“Mom?”

She didn’t move or answer. Her face and eyes were transformed into an acceptable welcome. Forcing a soft smile on her face, she stared at the limping sailor inching his way toward her. Mom knew he hadn’t seen her yet. She became more composed with each step that Dad took toward us. Her red lips parted and a brilliant smile stole some of the light from the mid-afternoon sun. Her eyes glistened and they looked more beautiful than I can ever remember. A sudden breeze lifted a wisp of her hair across her perfect brow.

As my dad passed through the crowd some of the soldiers and sailors and marines began to salute him. Some of the women followed suit while the kids and older men gave my dad a high sign. Dad nodded in recognition, his face almost crimson, and then he stared at the platform as he continued his short trek. One woman came from out of nowhere and threw her arms around the limping sailor and kissed him hard on the cheek. Another woman reached out from the crowd and wiped the smeared lipstick mark from the side of his face with a handkerchief. Several uniformed men patted him lightly on his back. It seemed like everyone wanted to touch him, to console him, to physically experience the man who had been injured while protecting his country.

His head still bent, my dad stopped dead in his tracks when he saw my mother’s high heels in front of him. How he knew it was Mom just by looking at her shoes, I’ll never know. He slowly lifted his head and looked into her magnificent face. She was still smiling. A tear slipped from her sparkling eyes and slid down her cheek. Dad had a scared look on his face at first, but in a flash just the hint of a smile shone through.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d worry about me,” he said softly.

Another tear trickled down Mom’s cheek. Her eyes never once left my dad’s.

“I just couldn’t bear the thought of you worrying about me, Diane. It made my heart sting.”

“I understand, darling,” Mom replied, and you knew that she meant it.

It was then that Mom threw her arms around Dad and then that Dad embraced Mom like crazy. The crowd roared with approval. I think the people at the station were happy for my mom and dad because everybody loves a story with a good ending.

Dad dropped his cane, so I picked it up. I didn’t know what else to do. He and Mom were locked in an indescribable embrace.

They seemed to hug forever. I can tell you that it was difficult to see where Dad ended and Mom began. I guess that is what’s meant by a “holy union.” It was now that Dad kissed Mom like the male stars kiss the female stars in the movies, right smack on her red lips without coming up for air. Funny, but I didn’t feel any embarrassment like I always did when some guy was just looking at my mother with his beady eyes. I guess I felt all right about all the hugging and passionate kissing because this was my dad.

There were a lot of people watching Mom and Dad, and when the very long kiss ended with a gasp, everyone who was watching them gave out a hoot of approval. I guess it shocked my parents back to reality. They suddenly remembered that I was standing right beside them, holding Dad’s wooden cane.

“Hey, Josh! How are you, Sport? It’s been a long time. How about a big hug for this tired sailor?”

Dad had a really big manly grin on his face. He looked very handsome when he smiled. The wind shifted and a cool breeze whipped across the train platform, a clump of my Dad’s wavy hair falling across his brow. I think at that moment he looked more like Errol Flynn than like Ronald Reagan. He placed his hands under my arms and lifted me straight up to his chest. Pulling me closer to him, he gave me a huge bear hug.

It didn’t feel the same as when Mom hugged me. It didn’t feel soft and warm and snuggly and smell like flowers. Dad’s hug was strong and sure and smelled like aftershave lotion or something. I hugged him back. It felt good. I wasn’t afraid anymore and I was so happy that he was my father, not some other guy with sadistic, beady eyes.

Dad lowered me to the platform and took Mom’s hand in one of his, and my hand in his other. He squeezed my hand really tightly while he gazed longingly into my mother’s sparkling eyes. Dad stepped a little closer to my mother and almost stumbled: I still had his cane. The soldier that had carried my Dad’s duffle bag for him dropped the bags onto the concrete platform and steadied my father. My mother’s expression didn’t change.

“Easy there, fellow,” the young soldier admonished my father.

My father grinned at him.

“I’m okay, Pal,” he said, looking at the soldier from over his shoulder. “Thanks for helping.”

“Yes,” my mother said gratefully to the freckled-face soldier, “thank you very much.”

“You wasted enough of your time on me,” Dad told him. “Go ahead and scram. Shove off,” he said with a grateful smile. “I’m in good hands now, Soldier.”

My mother cupped the young soldier’s hands in hers. She moved very close to him. I watched the soldier’s face flush with color. Mom’s voice was soft and gentle and sounded like lilacs, if lilacs could talk. The soldier blushed some more. Come to think of it, maybe that’s how you can tell when a guy is okay around my mom—he’ll turn red at first glance, instead of looking sadistic with his beady eyes.

“Go find your girl, young man. You’ve finished your job here. We’re very grateful and we won’t forget you, ever.” Mom’s voice was almost a whisper. She always created the mood and everyone else followed her lead.

“Aw, it’s okay, Missus. I didn’t mind,” the soldier said, a nervous stutter in his voice. I could tell that he really liked my mom. “Besides, my girl gave me the brush-off months ago—you know, the old heave-ho! I guess she didn’t like waiting so long. Heck, I ain’t been home in four years.”

Mom glanced at Dad. There was a question in her eyes. Dad nodded just like he could read her mind. I couldn’t believe what happened next. Mom kissed the soldier right smack on the lips. He almost fainted and I almost flipped out. I realize now that Mom was getting Dad’s permission to give the young soldier something he wasn’t going to forget too soon. The soldier’s freckles seemed to be dancing wildly on his cheeks and a big silly grin spread across his face. His hazel eyes glimmered like light bouncing from crystal. He looked really happy. I could see my dad was happy for him.

“Now, on your way, you hear me?” Mom softly chided him. “Go home. I think you’ll discover that there are lots of girls waiting for you. They just don’t know it yet.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the soldier said obediently. “Well, I hope I’ll see you guys again soon, maybe. And good luck to you, Lieutenant,” he told my father earnestly, glancing at my Dad’s bad leg.

My father nodded in quiet acknowledgment. The soldier shot my father a sharp salute, grabbed his duffle bag, and disappeared from our life. Mom turned to Dad and smiled. I was still holding my father’s cane. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I nudged my mother as subtly as I could, but Mom was busy looking at Dad. I stuck the cane between them and luckily for me, Dad took it from me.

Another gust of August wind wafted across the train platform. It sent a few ladies’ hats flying to parts unknown. Paper napkins, tissues, and loose pages from newspapers flipped and floated in the air, then disappeared below the train platform. Another gust of wind blew at my mom’s back, pressing her dress tightly against her long legs and the curve of her hips. I could sense the people on the crowded train platform staring at her, especially the guys. I remember wishing then that Mom wasn’t so beautiful. Not that I’d want her to be ugly. Just not so gorgeous.

Now she turned toward the station announcer’s office in the middle of the train platform. It had a steel door and two large windows that faced in our general direction. I could barely see the outline of the guy who was looking our way through the dark amber glass. How strange, I thought. Or was he just another pervert ogling my mom?

The guy in the platform office shrugged. It was a signal for my mom. She winked secretly at the man, making certain my dad didn’t notice anything. The guy gave my mom an excited thumbs-up gesture; then he disappeared.

Mom turned to Dad and smiled. She positioned his empty hand, the one without the cane, around her waist. Dad lost his balance for a moment, but recovered quickly. He had this really wonderful look in his gleaming dark eyes, as if he were looking at a queen or some famous person. He arched his back, straightened his wide shoulders, and tried to stand fully erect. I noticed for the first time how tall he was; maybe over six feet. He looked really slick in his uniform, I can tell you.

“How about a dance, Sailor?” Mom giggled and winked at dad flirtatiously.

Just at that moment the platform speakers came to life and the sound of Moonlight Serenade bathed the station in a swooning symphony. I remembered that Mom had told me how much Dad loved the Glenn Miller band and that Moonlight Serenade was their all-time favorite tune. I learned later that Mom was friendly with the station master’s wife, and that together Mom and her friend coaxed the station- master into playing Dad’s song.

At first, surprised and bewildered, Dad just beamed from earlobe to earlobe. Mom put her other hand out to him. Dad hesitated; I guess he was wondering what he should do—you know, about the cane and his bad leg—but then he just tossed his cane onto the concrete platform. Mom stood there, expressionless, never taking her sparkling eyes away from him. With one hand around Mom’s waist, Dad tried to reach Mom’s hand, but he stumbled and fell hard to his knees.

I thought I would die right there. Several people who were still milling around witnessed my father’s fall and shuddered out loud. Some of the ladies started to cry and some of them hid their faces because they felt so embarrassed for Dad.

Mom remained unfazed. She didn’t move a muscle.

“Grab me, Ron,” she whispered to him, “and pull yourself up, if you can.”

Mom wasn’t being emotionally distant or ignoring Dad’s predicament. It was just her way of meeting a challenge head-on. I know that deep inside she must have been feeling all of my father’s pain and embarrassment. There is no doubt in my mind about that.

I hadn’t noticed it at first, but when Dad stumbled the music had abruptly stopped. You could hear the needle scratching across the record with a quick zip. The minutes ticked by like years in the utter silence. Some guy looked like he wanted to help my father, but his wife, or maybe she was his girlfriend, stopped him in his tracks.

“Don’t you dare, Honey,” she told him. “Give the guy a chance. Let him be a man. That’s all we can do,” she whispered.

Everybody else stood frozen like a family picture in a frame. Some people forced smiles on their faces just like when you’re being photographed at a reunion or holiday meeting.

“Lend me your hand, Diane,” my dad asked Mom.

Mom reached out to my father and clasped her hand around his. Dad was still clinging to Mom’s waist with his other hand. Nobody moved. Even the autumn wind grew still. There was no announcement coming from the loudspeakers and not a single train could be heard in the distance. It was really eerie.

“I hope that gorgeous waistline of yours doesn’t give out now, Sweetheart.”

Dad took a deep breath (so did Mom) and started to pull himself to his feet. Everyone could see that he was struggling, and they couldn’t miss the intense grimace on Mom’s flushed face as she bore the strain of my dad’s weight. Slowly, Dad’s knees left the platform and his hands reached for Mom’s slender shoulders, and then he was back on his feet. The whole darn crowd clapped feverishly, just as if the Star-Spangled Banner had been struck. Mom pulled a tiny white handkerchief from her coat pocket and swabbed the beads of sweat from my father’s forehead and upper lip. For a moment, my handsome father and beautiful mother just stared at each other. Boy, were they in love. Mom nodded toward the stationmaster’s window, and a few seconds later Moonlight Serenade filled the air once again.

Dad held onto Mom’s shoulders for dear life and danced his heart out. He almost tripped a few times, but mom steadied him as they moved together inch by inch around the concrete platform. My dad was dancing!

Man, you should have seen the people watching: they were crying like babies; the guys were saluting my parents and giving them the old thumbs- up. A young woman soon grabbed her guy and started dancing with him, just like Mom and Dad. Mom and the other lady sent each other a confirmation wink (girls are always doing that secret stuff). It looked to me like everyone was starting to dance. A young girl about my age ran over to me and said that she wanted to dance. I told her that it was okay by me. I just didn’t realize she wanted to dance with me!

"I don’t know how to dance," I said apologetically.

"It’s all right," she said. "I’ll show you. It’s easy."

"I don’t think I can do it."

"Yes, you can," she insisted.

In other words, she was being stubborn and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She made me real nervous.

"I have the measles," I ventured.

Of course, I was lying. But I think it’s okay to lie when you’ve got a predicament and a stubborn girl that won’t leave you alone. Girls can be very willful and persistent, I think. I don’t believe they know how to mind their own business.

"It doesn’t matter," she said. "I’ve already had the measles."

"But I’m feeling sick and all sweaty—I felt my upper lip quivering, but I couldn’t stop it.

"Well, dancing with me will make you feel better."

What nerve she had, huh? She had dark blonde hair that was curly around her forehead and there were a bunch of proper curls running down to her shoulders, too. Her blue eyes looked like somebody had painted them with a fine watercolor brush. I’ll admit that she was pretty, for sure. But that didn’t mean I was going to dance with her. Remember, I was only eight years old.

"I don’t like you," I said.

Now that’s a clincher, if I ever heard one. I knew she’d take a powder, if I insulted her. After all, what self-respecting girl would hang around after a guy told her that he didn’t like her? I felt a little guilty about telling her that I didn’t like her, but I was lying, anyway. I did like her, a little, I guess.

"Yes, you do!" she scolded me.

Boy, she was brazen, huh? Now how could she tell me that I liked her when she didn’t even know me? She wasn’t a mind reader, because Mom says there isn’t anybody that can really, truly read minds. But she stood there and told me what I was thinking anyway. Girls sure are different.

"I’m not dancing with you. Sorry." I decided I was going to be as stubborn as she was.

We danced for less than a minute. The music stopped: everyone applauded. The announcer rattled off the names and numbers of several trains that were soon to enter or depart the station. Almost everyone on our platform began to rush for the exit stairs. They quickly packed the wide concrete steps that led to the streets. I guess everybody was in a hurry to begin living again. The war was over and life was moving forward.

Mom took Dad’s cane from his hand and placed his arm around her narrow shoulders. Dad didn’t say a word. He just smiled. I guess he already knew that girls are usually the bosses.

Mom took my hand and together the three of us—with me dragging Dad’s duffle bag behind me—walked slowly down the long steps to the street. We got into one of the waiting taxis and it was only minutes before we were home. Mom made a nice meal, friends came from practically everywhere to see us, Grandpa had too much to drink, insulted most of the guests, goosed Mom’s married friend, got royally reprimanded by Mom, and passed out. I don’t remember falling asleep on the sofa. I don’t remember Mom carrying me up to bed, tucking me in and kissing me goodnight. I don’t remember Dad pressing the palm of his hand against my cheek and saying that he loved me. I don’t remember him calling me "Sport". I remember feeling secure—real secure. My Dad was finally home. Mom was really happy again. Things were swell.

I wondered if Dad would be disappointed when he found out that I was basically a very shy person, and that I sometimes acted like a buffoon at school. I wondered if I would ever again see the pretty girl who had danced with me at the train station?

In America: Oligarchy or Socialism?

Republicans have lately stepped-up their mundane accusations that democrats are trying to create a socialist form of government; of course, democrats continue to echo the worn-out reproof that republicans are trying to pamper and protect big business, to facilitate the rich and powerful.  So, it appears that our representatives are once again at odds with one another and that Congress is unlikely to pass any bill that will truly turn around our current economic crisis any time soon.

It has been noted that Ben Franklin emerged from the building where the Constitution had just been ratified and was asked by an interested bystander: “Mister Franklin, do we have a government?”  Franklin allegedly replied: “Yes, a republic, if we can keep it.”

Many Americans worry whether the republic to which Franklin referred has been torn asunder.  So, the question remains, Do we still have a republic?  The answer, of course, is absolutely not! 

Who’s to blame?  Both sides of the House and Senate have shredded the remnants of our republic into wafting confetti.   We now have what is commonly known as a mixed economy, a condition which would be intolerable in a true republic.

But is this such a bad thing?

It hasn’t ruined the nation just yet, and it is not likely that it will any time soon.

What is a mixed economy?  It’s an economic (political) system that permits enterprises to operate somewhat freely.  The system, however, does include government restrictions, which keep businesses of all sorts from competing completely free of any government interference.  Most policy restrictions are a consequence of a plethora of enterprises caught in corrupt comportments.  Just lately, a national plea for more substantive banking reforms by both Congress and its constituents is being considered.  Yet it is not likely that the Congress will make any substantial changes in its current policies. 

Is Anti-Semitism Alive And Well?

Almost all Americans are anti-Semites.  The term Semite does not refer only to Jews, but to all peoples from that specific region, including the Arab nations.

All Americans, since none of us is perfect, embrace some prejudice from time to time.  Moreover, differences in social, cultural, ethnic, religious, educational, and financial circumstances keep us a breed apart. Those of us who are white, Christian, male, educated, heterosexual, and middle-class are perhaps subjected to less bias than other groups.  Still, all else being equal, the Irish-American may feel prejudice toward the Italian-American, for example.  Some of us may dislike others for sundry reasons, including but not limited to a person or persons who talk too much, brag too much, wear too much makeup, engage in licentious behavior, or who don’t bathe with regularity.  We may forever disdain someone whom we think coveted our spouse, or who failed to keep a promise, or who didn’t pay a debt owed to us.  It seems almost unnecessary to mention the bias apparent in xenophobic discussions.

Catholics have been declared odious by Protestants and Protestants will not soon give up their protesting.  Both have disparaged Jews.   Jews frequently return the vitriol.

Prejudice exists!  It always has and it always will.  We are concomitantly heroes and villains.  Humanity is a species that has failed to evolve perfectly.  We are wont to conclude that someone whom we caught picking his or her nose is a slob, or a degenerate, or a person with poor and unacceptable manners. Yet, how many of us have manifested such elemental behavior—but, fortunately, were never caught?

There has always been animosity among the rich, the not-so-rich, and the poor.  And it is unlikely that the educated will soon embrace the benighted.  Ignorance certainly appears to have distanced African-Americans from prosperity and dignity.  Washington, Jefferson, and most of the South enslaved Africans, treated them as the illiterates of the day were treated, and then refused to allow them to seek an education.  They were each declared one-fifth of a person!  (Even today, how many people refused to vote for President Obama because he was black?)  Further, isn’t it true that most Americans believe that the poor and down-trodden are personally to blame for their predicament?

White Americans have offered enormous support and respect for a few blacks (the number is waxing exponentially), and in some cases, it is almost with an intransigent suspension of good judgment.  Tiger Woods’s recent dalliances have been spotlighted by the press, yet it is most likely that the largest percentage of criticism will be delivered by the intelligentsia within the black community itself (some of the criticism may stem from the fact that Mister Woods doesn’t perceive himself as a black man).  Many known blacks will argue that white people only like blacks who behave like white people.  And they are correct in their positing that white people embrace people who are, to repeat, educated, articulate, talented, and heterosexual.  (White people do not, however, respect other whites who do not meet these criteria)  Woods is (was?) as salubrious as any white person might expect.  So is Colin Powell who, had he run for the presidency, would surely have been elected. The point is that there are many successful blacks who are now supported and befriended by white communities.  And, yes, these respected and admired blacks comport themselves much like successful white people do.  The history of this phenomenon has repeated itself continuously, even before America sought to remove itself from the tyrannical tentacles of the British monarchy.  

The beautiful usually reside in their own gaggle of lovelies-to-look-at.  These pretties tend to ignore or berate ugly people (determined by the same standards), who are far less apt to find good employment or charity.  Republicans despise Democrats, yet these two political groups are simply opposite sides of the same counterfeit coin.  Neither side can be trusted because one side represents big business—the financial brutes of the nation—while the other side represents the people—in other words, the malevolent mob!

There is prejudice against our elderly, but they are the group most likely to easily parry disparaging attempts by others, even by those within their own group.  Bias toward infants is not as common, but it does exist.  Ayn Rand, when asked about the morality of abortion, proclaimed that the unborn have no rights.  So from the womb until death do us part, prejudice lives on!

The list of oppressed people(s) is as infinite as the number of people in extant.  The battle between the sexes is another example of how we view the many differences between us.  The physically and mentally handicapped is still another example. 

But why have the Jews long-suffered prejudice?  It would appear that they have encountered oppression throughout history.  Yet, they are overwhelmingly white, intelligent, heterosexual, financially self-sufficient, charitable and productive.  It begs the question: since we are biased against differences we find in others, what are the differences between Jews and most other ethnic groups that give rise to such appalling enmity?

We can find countless examples of fair-minded, intelligent individuals who dislike or despise Jews for no apparent reason, save that Jews are Jews.  Moreover, Jews are the only white people in modern history to have suffered from an almost completely successful mass extermination.  Even more shocking, the rest of the western world appears to have stood idly by as Jews of all ages and both sexes went to their untimely deaths in Nazi concentration camps.

Suffering the greatest of all hate crimes against a white race (there is some debate as to whether Jews are members of the Caucasian race—see http://academic.udayton.edu/race/01race/white01.htm), the Jews have survived at the displeasure of almost all other peoples, for they have always lived within the confines of other civilizations—until Israel was granted statehood in 1948.  The percentage of Jews living in Israel is less than half the number of Jews residing elsewhere in the world (see http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/942009.html).  The United States of America seems to be one of very few nations where the Jew can relax his or her defenses—but not completely.

Is Anti-Semitism alive and well? The simple answer appears to be an overwhelming YES!   But why?  Especially after the horror and guilt still flailing about everywhere because of the cruelty manifested toward the Jews by The Third Reich and other nations, one would think that humankind would be incapable of such ignominious prejudice.

It is not.

But is there any truth to the charges that Jews and blacks have reaped what they have sown?  Certainly no people of any race or origin deserve to be exterminated or enslaved.  Moreover, to suggest that Jews or blacks are collectively responsible for the ills of the world is to court absurdity.

Still, Jews have, for the most part, avoided assimilation and have managed to stir the prickly horns of prejudice everywhere they have settled.

More to come . . . . 

On Word Usage—A work In Progress

Proper word usage is important for a number of reasons, all of which should be obvious to those interested in such practices.  What is not obvious to the naive reader is that words can be disguised or manipulated to protect the writer from being accused of enmity, malice, brusqueness, or blatant vitriol.  Writers should enhance their writing skills in order to present more cogent views, clarity of purpose, and to avoid addled presentations, not to scribe masked insults. 

A  is the first letter in the English alphabet

and usually the first word in a standard dictionary.  It is an adjective that is often correctly referred to as an article (See Parts 0f Speech).  It usually precedes a common noun.  It describes a noun by designating that the noun is one of its kind, but not a specific one or the only one of its kind.  “I saw a man walking into town.”  “A big tree fell during the storm.”

At times, a may precede a proper noun:  “I am looking for a John Smith.”  “Is there a Mary Flatbush staying in the hotel?”  “Is there a Christmas story to be told?”

The letter a is not used before words that begin with a vowel sound.  INCORRECT:  “It is a awful day.”  CORRECT:  “It is an awful day.”

Perhaps confusing to some, an is used before a noun only when the noun begins with a vowel sound, not simply when it begins with a vowel.  For example, one would write: “We must have a united front.”  In the preceding example, the noun begins with a vowel but doesn’t have a vowel sound.  But one would write:  “It is an hour before bedtime,” because, although the letter h is a consonant, it has a vowel sound.  Consider:  “I want an understanding between us.”  In this instance, the word understanding begins with a vowel and has a vowel sound and should be preceded by the article an.

The words a and an are capitalized only at the beginning of a sentence.  (See THE.)

Affect=influence, cultivate, feign.  It is not Standard English to write, “It impacted all of us,” although “impact” is gaining in popularity, especially in the business world.  It is still better to write, “It affected all of us.”  Affect is probably avoided at times even by good writers because of the several definitions of the word.  For example, “We can affect (cultivate) a national change.”  Or “She affected (feigned) listlessness, although she was terribly hurt and disappointed.”  The meaning of affect is oft times confused with the meaning of effect.  It is advisable to consult a dictionary whenever doubt exists.  Affect may also be used as a noun when referring to someone’s facial expression.  This sense of the word is usually seen in psychiatric jargon. “His affect was flat.” (See Effect.)

Aggravate,, irritate, agitate=these three words are not synonymous.  The first, aggravate, means to do bodily harm as in aggravated assault.  Irritate means to annoy or disturb.  Agitate is what the washer does to your clothes, that is, to stir up your clothes.  It is also used figuratively:  “He was good at agitating (stirring up) the crowd.” 

Alot=is an unacceptable, albeit common spelling variant for “a lot.”  One would not write “alittle,” but one would correctly write “a little;” so one should write “a lot,” two words, not one.

Assure, Ensure, Insure=  Assure means to make certain or to promise.  “I assure you that I have your best interests at heart.”  “I wanted to assure myself that he had not followed me.”  Ensure means to guarantee: “I ensured him that the package would arrive at the designated time.”  Use insure when referring to any kind of insurance.  “He told me that he insured the package.”

NOTE:  When you assure someone, you are attempting to calm them or even pacify them with a promise or guarantee.  Ensure is almost to insure but not for a fee. As always, when in doubt check a dictionary.

Awhile=is an adverb, not a noun.  It is incorrect to write, in awhile.  One should write, in a while, while being a noun.  This is a common error, even among the best writers.

B

Beguile=to deceive.  If you are writing about or speaking of an attractive woman, it is better to use another adjective such as beautiful or hypnotic.  In days past, to beguile or enchant meant to bewitch, and one could be burned at the stake.  Beguile is, however, widely used today, meaning enchanting or attractive, and it is not used as a pejorative.  One can easily be forgiven for using the word in this sense.

Bad, Badly.  These two words are not interchangeable.  The former is an adjective, which modifies nouns.  The latter is an adverb, which modifies verb, adjectives, and other adverbs.  “I feel bad” means you are not well.  Benighted language critics will skewer you for this construction; they want you to write “I feel badly,” which means that your sense of touch is impaired!  We don’t write “I feel goodly,” so don’t write “I feel badly,” either. 

Note:  Thomas Jefferson wrote: “All men are created equal.”  Some language pundits claim that he should have written “All men are created equally.”  I argue that Jefferson was correct;  He was describing all men, not modifying created, which means he should use an adjective, not an adverb.

 

C

Comparative, Superlative=The former is used when comparing two people, places, or things; the latter is used when comparing three or more people, places, or things.  Do not write, “She is the oldest of my (two) daughters.  Do not write, “She is the oldest of my (two) children.”  Write, “Istanbul is the farthest of the three countries.”  Write, “Istanbul is the closer of the two countries.”

Comprise=consists of, to include.  It is considered a tautology to write:  “The car is comprised of many parts.”  Many language mavens will criticize such usage.  One should write: “The car comprises many parts.”  Inexperienced speakers and writers may find this usage awkward at first. 

Constitute=made up of.  Constitute is not usually considered synonymous with comprise.  Comprise represents the whole, while constitute represents the parts.  “These parts constitute the engine.”  “These actions constitute an unlawful act.”  This difference  in meaning between comprise and constitute is not inarguable.  It is only in recent years that most respected writers prefer to use the two words as explained here.  Failure to follow this course may result in harsh criticism.

Continual, Continuous=The former means to recur again and again, but not necessarily without interruption; the latter means to continue indefinitely without interruption.  “The sun rises continually.”  “The Earth revolves continuously around the sun.”  Some dictionaries define these two words as synonymous; they are not interchangeable. 

D

Definite is spelled thusly, not definate.  The latter is so prevalent on the Internet that its ubiquitous use might soon sway dictionaries to consider it as a variant spelling.

Disinterested, uninterested=impartial, not interested, respectively.  Many naive writers use these two words interchangeably.  They are not synonymous.  Jurors should be disinterested parties; that is, they should review evidence with impartiality.  If you are uninterested in the speaker, then you are apt to suffer ennui.

E

Effect=consequence, outcome, personal property, impression.  Affect and effect cause writers no end of trouble and embarrassment.  And it is no wonder considering the many possibilities for error.  “The effect (consequence) was devastating.”  “His effects (personal property) were moved elsewhere.”   His humorous pretence was mainly for effect (impression.) It is desirable to consult a dictionary whenever doubt presents itself regarding affect or effect.  (See Affect.)

F

Flaccid=limp, not erect.  Even the best speakers mispronounce this word.  It should be spoken as flak’sid, not Flas’sid.

Fewer=less in number or size.  Use when comparing people, places, or things. One should write, “There were fewer than ten people at the funeral.”  But write, “Less sugar in your diet is healthy.”  The rule states that when something is countable, use fewer, otherwise use less.  This can get confusing:  while less sugar is correct, if we were counting the grains of sugar then fewer would be correct.  “Fewer grains of sugar are spilled with the new containers.”   Fewer is often, but not always, followed by than.  “There were fewer of us in attendance this day.”  “Fewer than twenty dolphins were spotted.”  (See Less and More.)

Farther, further=Farther is used when speaking of literal distance.  “He walked farther than John.”  Further is used in a figurative sense.  “If we carry this conversation any further, a riot is wont to break out.”

G

Greater, greatest=more in number or size.  Use greater, greatest when comparing people, places, things.  “There was a greater number of complaints this month.” 

NOTE: It is sloppy usage to write, “It took him over seven hours (read “It took him more than seven hours.”  Use more or less when not offering comparisons.

Greek=the name of a people.  The word Greek is both a noun and an adjective.  Grecian is sometimes used as an alternative adjective.  It is a variant spelling, but it is not widely accepted among academics—unless you are referring to the hair-coloring product.

H

I

In, into=If you state that you’re walking in a room, you are already in the room.  Into means entering or moving toward something.  You walk into a room.  You are in BIG trouble.  “I got in the car.”  The question is: what did you get?  It is extremely offensive to confuse these two words in your writing.

J

Judgment is spelled thusly, not judgement.

P

Poignant=sorrowful, mournful, touching, sad, piercing.  Poignant does not mean eloquent or well-written.  It is more closely related to elegiac than it is to eloquent.